


An adventure in crime and space

by a_constellation_of_starlight



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Crossover, Daleks - Freeform, Friendship, Gen, Kid Sherlock, Mention of the Avengers, Pirates, Weeping Angels - Freeform, Wholock, notseason4compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-18 08:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 78,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11870577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_constellation_of_starlight/pseuds/a_constellation_of_starlight
Summary: When 7 year old Sherlock meets the Doctor, his world changes. The time lord makes him a promise: to take him on a different adventure every summer holidays. A mysterious passenger on a pirate ship, Daleks, a haunted house, a flesh eating virus on a space station and after his 11th birthday, Hogwarts, school for witchcraft and wizardry.All of them are slowly making Sherlock into the man he's destined to be.But his luck doesn't last forever and soon he has to meet his demons at the end of the road. The ones that might've been there from the very beginning.





	1. A tale of two brothers

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes or any characters of the Harry Potter universe. Basically, every character that you might recognise from any story / form of media: not mine!
> 
> Please also note, that Sherlock is called William (in this story) by his family. After all, that is his first name :) And there is a reason :)
> 
> And thanks to drachenfuerstviraqocha, without her, this would've been a line long document on my laptop.

Sherlock hated having his hopes destroyed. Not that he did have big hopes in the first place. But after weeks of boredom at home he hoped his older brother would at least talk to him. However, Mycroft thought studying and keeping his head in a book were more important than his brother's attention.

“Mike, I'm bored,” Sherlock complained and knocked wildly at Mycroft's door.

 This time he was finally successful. His brother opened the door and without giving Sherlock a second glance he strode out of the door.

 “Mother, would you please make him shut up?” Mycroft said loudly and walked down the stairs. Sherlock shot him a furious, yet heartbroken look.

 

“Mycroft, don't talk to your brother like that!” Their mother replied and gave her oldest son a judging look. “Your brother spent the whole year alone, would you please just acknowledge the fact that he is there?” Mycroft looked bothered, but he didn't give into his mothers scolding.

 “He wants to play some childish game with me. I'm too old for that, I need to study.” 

 Their mother looked at Mycroft and then slowly at Sherlock who stood at the top at the staircase, looking down over the banister. “William, would you please come down?” she said, calling her son by his first name, and gestured Mycroft to come along. Both boys shuffled sulkily behind their mother into the living room.

 

The Holmes's house was a small but cozy place. The boys’ parents had never gotten too much money and the money they made they put into their children's education. Sherlock and Mycroft sat down on the dark green sofa and looked at their mother who walked towards her oldest.

 “Please give me that book,” she asked. Mycroft looked appalled.

“No mother, you can’t.”

 

 Sherlock smirked at his brother and put his feet on the table. His smirk only lasted until he saw the disapproving look his mother gave him. Ridiculous. Once he was grown up, he would put his feet up on any table and do whatever he wanted to, Sherlock knew that for sure. Why did grown ups always invent rules? Who was the first grown up anyway, who said that you couldn't put your feet on the table? He let them sink to the floor again.

 

“Mycroft, this week has been the nicest so far this summer. The weather is lovely and your brother has missed you,” their mum said and reached for the textbook in her son's hands. “I am incredibly proud of you and your diligent studying but there is nothing wrong with moving your legs every once in a while,” Sherlock smirked even more at that.

 

His older brother had gained some weight over the last year. While other boys played rugby, he had spent his free time in a chess club. 

 Mycroft looked a bit sinister but gave the book to his mother in the end. “You'll get it back in the evening,” she said, “And now off you go!” She nodded her head in the direction of the front door. 

 

Mycroft stood up and sighed while he walked lazily to the cupboard where his trainers were. Their mother turned to her younger son.

 “Have some patience with your brother. He wants to stand out. He doesn't love you less, but he set himself a goal and that makes him abandon everything else.”

 Sherlock pouted and then shrugged.

 

“Maybe you'll understand once you go to school,” his mother said.

“Or maybe not,” Sherlock stood up to get his shoes.

He didn’t see his mothers worried eyes when he followed his brother outside.

 

Sherlock stood on a broad tree branch with a stick, too long for his short arm, in his hand.

“Give me the name of the forbidden island, Mr Smith.” Sherlock threatened his brother with the stick. “Or I shall trade your life for rum.”

“How are you going to do that? And why do you think about rum, you're seven years old!”

Sherlock was upset. “Just play along!”

 

“You wouldn't dare, you filthy rascal,” Mycroft replied.

“I may show you the island. But I will leave you there without telling you where the treasure is hidden. So you can get old and mad while looking for it. You will never find it.” Sherlock seemed to be content with that development.

 

“Hah! We'll see about that!” he shouted. “Mr. Smith, you may come aboard my ship. Your residence will be downstairs where the rats live.”

Mycroft climbed up the tree, staying one branch lower from where Sherlock was.

“And by what name may I call you?” Mycroft asked. “My name,” said Sherlock, head up high, “is Captain Blackbeard.”

“Brother mine, it will be years until you can grow a beard.”

 

Sherlock poked him with his stick, nearly catapulting his brother down to the ground. This was going to be an interesting summer.

 

The next few days went on like this, very much to their mother’s delight. Mycroft seemed to enjoy the game more and more, even if he didn't let it on. Sherlock could see that he did and it made him incredibly happy. And he wasn't the only one.

 

“What's going on with these two?” Mr Holmes asked his wife one evening while helping with the dishes.

“Mike spent half of summer crammed up in his room, reading dictionaries and encyclopedias. It's like he's a new person.” Mrs Holmes smiled.

“I had a word with him,” she said and quietly added, “and took away his book with the promise to give it back, after he played with Will.”

Her husband looked astounded. “And that worked?”

“I honestly didn't think so,” she replied.

“But some miracle happened and now their spending all their time outside.”

 

Two days later their dad came home with wooden swords, a treasure chest full of chocolate coins, a pirate hat and a Jolly Roger. 

 

“GRAB YOUR SWORD, THE BIG WHALE IS ATTACKING US!” Sherlock jumped from one wooden board to another. They had laid them out all over the trees close to their house so it would be easier to move on their “ship”.

 

Mycroft grabbed his sword and climbed on the first board. He was bigger than Sherlock and a lot slower.

 

“Protect the back of the ship!” he yelled at his little brother.

“It's called the stern!” Sherlock cried out loud.

“Bow, Stern, Port, Starboard! How many times do I have to explain this to you?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

 

Sherlock pointed his sword at his brother. “You've got nothing to say to me. This is not your ship.” 

Mycroft turned to Sherlock and put his sword to his brothers. “You're a pirate. You don't have any right to insult me or tell me what to do in any way,” he said.

 

Sherlock smirked at his brother. “I will throw you off the ship if you say something like this again,” and with that he striked at Mycroft.

 

Both brothers jumped around, fighting with their wooden swords in a world completely their own.

 

The days went on like that. Every morning they continued their pirate game. Compared to the beginning, Mycroft now seemed quite keen on exploring his role. But in the evenings, he still locked himself up in his room and read books over books.

 

Time passed fast and soon there was only a week left until the beginning of September and with that the beginning of Sherlock first year at primary school. On one of their last Saturdays of their holidays Mrs Holmes took her boys into the town's centre to shop for stationery.

 

“Boys, please stay together. It's gonna be a very busy day and I don't want to loose you!” she said, when they stepped out of the car.

 

Sherlock reached for Mycroft's hand, who tried to escaped it. Their mother gave him a scolding look.

 

“Mycroft!” he looked annoyed and took his little brothers hand again.

“I'm 14, Mum. I'm a teenager,” he complained.

“Yes,” she replied. “And it's very cool to hold your little brothers hand in public. It shows you're responsible and grown up. Isn't that exactly what you want to be?”

Mycroft scowled but didn’t respond.

 

They made their way around town, going into several shops, ticking more and more things off the list while their hands got fuller.

“Do we have everything now?” Sherlock asked, longingly eyeing a pirate pencil case.

“Honey, I still need to pick up the books I ordered at the book shop right around the corner,” Mrs Holmes said and handed Mycroft a five pound note.

“Get some ice cream for you and your brother, ok? I'll be right back here in ten minutes.

I trust you, Mike. Don't do anything stupid.”

 

Sherlock hated being babysitted by his brother. He liked his brother as just his brother. Someone to look up to and receive advice from. Someone to play with. Not someone to be looked after by every second.

 

Good for him, Mycroft didn't like it either.

 

“Will, eat your ice cream and wait for me on that bench,” Sherlock's brother commanded, while looking in the direction of some older boys standing in a corner.

 

“I'm gonna be back in ten minutes. Stay where you are and don't move!” he shouted this time. Sherlock was fed up.

“You can't just leave me here! Mike! Mummy told us to stay together!”

“Yes, and mother will be very upset if you get lost. So please stay where you are.”

Mycroft walked away, leaving his little brother sitting alone on a bench.

 

Sherlock sat down, annoyed and felt like crying. He was slowly eating his ice cream observing people that wandered about. He couldn't focus on anything and his eyes kept following Mycroft, who was now at the end of the street.

 

Sherlock was curious.

 

Yes, he was also hurt and annoyed and close to tears, but the curiosity about what these older boys could possibly want from Mycroft was stronger than all these feelings.

 

He licked his ice cream faster as he stood up and walked as quick as his little legs could carry him into Mycroft's direction.

 

His brother turned around and Sherlock jumped inside a newsagent. Once he looked back outside, his older brother was gone.

 

“Excuse me, Darling. Are you lost?” an elderly woman asked Sherlock concerned.

Sherlock shook his head frantically.

“My parents are outside,” he spoke very fast and nervously,

“I’m just hiding from my big brother.”

 

He managed a nervous smile and ran out of the shop. Sherlock ran to the point where he had seen Mycroft for the last time and nearly crashed into an old Police Box. The cone of ice cream flew out of his hand and he got the sticky cream all over his them.

 

When he looked around he saw one of the boys his brother was talking to earlier standing in an alley between garden fences of some houses. Sherlock quickly rubbed the sugary substance from his skin with his t-shirt while closing the distance between him and the boys. He walked very close to the fence of the first house, so the boys couldn't see him.

 

“You owe us something, mate,” a bulky boy with blond, short hair said with a threatening tone.

 

“I don't owe you anything.”

Sherlock could hear his brother reply with a voice he had never heard on him. It was determined and stern but Sherlock could still hear the insecurity in it. Maybe because he was his brother, maybe because Sherlock started to pay more and more attention to people's behaviour.

 

“Thomas was supposed to pay for the planned field trip. You know,”

The blond boy went on.

“But he couldn't. Because for some reason all his funds were gone. Care to elaborate?”

Mycroft paused before he said anything.

“Well, it was mine to begin with, wasn't it? If Thomas hadn't been such a moron, he'd still have it. I just took back what was mine.”

“You little bastard,” the big boy grunted and suddenly Mycroft screamed.

 

Sherlock, scared for his brother, jumped out of his hiding.

 

“Mike!” he screamed and immediately stopped.

There were three boys surrounding his fourteen year old brother and they were all about three or four years older. The biggest and scariest of them had grabbed Mycroft by his collar and pushed him against a fence. Sherlock felt his body go numb. He wanted to scream for his mother or his brother, realising that none of them could help.

 

He saw Mycroft's face go white.

“Who is that?” the blond boy asked. “Don't tell me you've got yourself a little minion?”

Sherlock looked frantically back and forth between the leader of the group and Mycroft.

“Wait a second,” one of the other boys suddenly said. “You don't go to school with us. How do you know him?”

 

The question was directed at Mycroft, who didn't answer.

 

“Oooh, don't tell me. He's your brother, isn't he?”

The big guy let Mycroft down. “Looks like we found leverage.”

 

Sherlock ran.

 

Of course he wasn't very fast. But Sherlock's short legs were giving all they had in them. He didn't look back. If he had, he'd have probably noticed that no one was after him, that those boys wanted nothing but to scare him.

 

Very soon he found the blue Police Box again. Sherlock knocked without thinking. His whole body was shaking. The door wouldn't open, so he tried to pull it, with no success. “Please, open up,” he sobbed. “I need help.”

 

He took a step back. No one was answering. Desperate for help, Sherlock turned away, looking for adults to ask. In that very moment, he heard a door open.

 

“Sorry, got lost. You said you needed help?”

A man, quite skinny and short, wearing safety goggles from a different century, looked outside. It took him a second to realise that the person who had knocked was a lot shorter than him.

 

“Oh hello you. What can I do for you?”

 

Sherlock was so confused by the man's appearance that he didn't get a word out of his mouth. Except for the goggles, he was also wearing a pair of braces and a bright red bow tie. His face was young and once he took off his eye wear, Sherlock saw that his eyes were very soft. The man's eyes went even softer, once he saw Sherlock's expression and he lowered himself down to his height. 

 

“You are scared.” he remarked. “What made you so-”

 

A cry interrupted their conversation and the stranger looked into the direction, Sherlock came from.

 

“AH!” he cried out and ran off. Mid run, he stopped and turned around abruptly.

“I'm the Doctor, by the way.” he said and turned his head to the side. “Who are you?”

 

Sherlock swallowed, remembering his mother’s voice who’d told him plenty of times not to tell his name to strangers. “William, Sir. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” The Doctor smiled and ran off again.

 

Sherlock followed him as fast as he could.

 

Halfway down the alley he ran into Mycroft. “Mike!” Sherlock had never been so happy to see his older brother and hugged him around his waist. The Doctor looked down the alley and ran away. Sherlock let go of his brother instantly and ran after him, which of course caused his brother to do the same. A few feet away they met up with the gang again.

 

“Is anyone here, who made a little boy cry?” the Doctor demanded and Sherlock blushed.

Why did grown ups have to be so... grown up all the time? Why not just ignore that he had been crying?

 

“So why is this your problem? And why do you dress like my grandpa?” The bulky, blond boy said aggressively.

 

“I care, because you just hurt a very young boy and you should be ashamed of that. And I care, because I am a kind person. And for the sake of your own well being, don't do it again!” the Doctor said and Sherlock felt Mycroft stir behind him.

 

He was probably thinking as the other boys were. How did a skinny, tiny person like this even dare to threaten an enormous being like that boy? But Sherlock wasn't. All that was visible in his eyes was admiration. But Bulky Boy didn't seem to be impressed. With one movement of his hand he grabbed the doctor's bow tie and shirt and lifted him up against the wooden fence behind him. 

 

“Are you still being that brave?” the younger boy said and the Doctor chocked. “You can't just threaten people on the street, mate,” one of his friends said and looked unsure back and forth between the other boys.

 

“If you're scared, go away,” the blond boy said, keeping his eyes fixed on the Doctor. But his voice sounded not so sure any more.

 

Sherlock knew that he had to do something. Well, not had to, but he wanted to. In a quick motion he picked up a pebble from the ground and threw it against the window of the house the garden fence belonged to. When nothing happened he did it again. Sherlock went on to throw the third pebble when suddenly-

 

“What are you doing?” the big boy said, and let go of the Doctor. Obviously this kind of multitasking was too much for him. In the same moment the back door of the house opened and a female voice shouted.

 

“Oi, WHAT'S GOING ON?” The big boy cursed under his breath.

 

With one mad look at Mycroft that meant no good, he gestured his friends to run away. The Doctor put a hand to his throat and pulled at his collar to get some air. “I had everything under control.” He said with a quiet, hoarse voice while holding up this thumbs.

 

Going back, Sherlock led the way. After the quick move with the pebbles he felt somehow powerful and didn't really hear the conversation behind him.

 

“You know,” the Doctor said quietly to Mycroft,

“You are the one who got everyone in trouble. But somehow I'm more concerned about your little brother.” Mycroft looked up at him.

“So am I,” he whispered, “he lives so much inside his head-”

“That's not always a bad thing,” the Doctor interrupted him.

“In fact, very often, those people are the best you can possibly find.” He smiled at the older Holmes brother.

“Take good care of him. Make sure, he doesn't get himself into trouble.”

 

“What's in there?” Mycroft asked, once they got back to the blue Police Box.

“It is my ship,” the Doctor said proudly. “It takes me anywhere in time and space!”

“Can I come with you?” Sherlock asked excitedly while Mycroft just said: “But it's a box.”

“Yes, it's a very special box. And yes, you-“ something made the Doctor stop and Sherlock suspected it to be Mycroft.

 

When he turned away, his brother looked worried, something he hadn’t seen him do in a very long time. The Doctor looked down awkwardly.

 

“Maybe not, your brother is right.” He looked Mycroft in the eye and then waved to Sherlock briefly before stepping back into his box.

 

Mycroft gladly took Sherlock's hand while walking away this time. But his little brother slid out of it and ran back. Sherlock knocked at the blue box again and this time the door opened more quickly. The Doctor looked outside and before he got to say a single word. Sherlock started talking frantically.

 

“You said earlier, that you got lost in the box. But how could you? It's too small,” Sherlock said. 

 

“Don't you have a small head?” the Doctor asked and knocked lightly on Sherlock's head as if to make sure it wasn't wooden and empty.

“Yes, but that's not the same,” Sherlock protested and shook his head, “there’s lots of stuff inside. It's a lot bigger on the inside!” The doctor looked down at Sherlock with beaming eyes.

“Yes, exactly.” 

 

Sherlock lay snug in his bed, his bag already packed for his first day of school. His mum had helped of course. Mycroft on the other hand had too much of a high opinion of himself to do such a thing. 

 

But Sherlock didn't care about any of that right now. Tomorrow would be a new adventure, he just had to get some sleep. Which didn't work because a thought passed through his head and Sherlock bolted upright.

 

He had forgotten his pirate hat and sword outside.

 

Mycroft and he did play their game this day in the morning but it hadn't been the same like the rest of the summer. His brother had been distracted and annoyed by everything. After one hour of getting nowhere with the game and the storyline, Sherlock had given up and walked away, leaving Mycroft alone. This did his older brother no good, since he had to explain to their parents where on earth their youngest son had gone.

 

Sherlock looked around the room. There was a chance that he might make it down to the big tree outside of their backyard and back. So he put his feet on the cold floor and got into his slippers. As silent as he could he walked downstairs and out into the garden where the cool air and bright stars greeted him. Careful not to close the door accidentally, and lock himself out in the middle of the night, he placed a stone between door and frame.

 

Sherlock ran over the lawn.

 

Unfortunately, climbing over the self made wooden bridge that connected the two sides of the shallow stream wasn't as easy as in bright daylight and Sherlock's right foot got stuck between branches and he fell in to the water.

 

“Argh,” he cursed and tried to get up again, which didn't work.

 

Panic rose up in him. This had been such a bad idea. Crawling out of the water, he tried to get a grip on the wet ground. Feeling his way forward, he finally got out of the water, when the tears kicked in.

 

“ _Help_ ,” he croaked, despite knowing, that no one was around. He stirred a bit, losing hope more and more with every move he made. Tomorrow was his first day at school. He would be in so much trouble if he didn't get out of here in time.

 

Suddenly, he heard wood cracking and a firm hand grabbed him by his pyjama top, pulling him out of the mud. Sherlock looked up at his saviour, only to meet the same grey eyes that he'd seen a week ago.

 

“Gotcha! What are you doing here?” the Doctor asked as he let go of Sherlock.

“Thank you,” he replied, not really listening to what the Doctor had asked.

“Why would you wander off at night?”

 

Sherlock thought that might've been the most ridiculous question, coming from a man that sneaked around his family’s property.

 

“I was looking for my-” Sherlock stopped mid sentence.

The Doctor was wearing his hat.

 

“Hey, that's my hat!” he exclaimed looking at the hat on top of the Doctor's head. “I went out looking for it,” Sherlock said with suspicion in his voice. “Can I please have it back?” he asked politely. But the Doctor didn't hear him.

 

He kept staring into nothing, obviously deeply in thought. “Doctor?” Sherlock asked. No reply. “Doctor please, would you give it back to me, I have to go back and go to sleep so I'll wake up early tomorrow. It's my first day of school,” he said proudly before adding, “and mummy is gonna be mad at me if she finds out I stayed up that long!”

 

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, _what_ are _you_ doing here!”

The Doctor suddenly snapped out of his trance. It wasn't a question, but a statement.

 

Sherlock jumped at its intensity “I live here,” he said, despite knowing that that wasn't what the Doctor had meant. “Yes I know, but what are you doing _here_!” The Doctor and Sherlock exchanged looks and something in the Doctor's eyes sparked the adventure in Sherlock again.

 

He was wide awake in his wet pyjamas and the most interesting person he knew was standing opposite him. The Doctor wore a different expression on his face. One, that Sherlock hadn't seen yet. It was a smile and it looked like he had a brilliant, new idea on his mind. He put his hands together and kneaded them thoroughly.

 

“Come with me!” he suddenly said and grabbed Sherlock's little hand.

The pirate hat was suddenly forgotten.

 

They both dashed through the woods and Sherlock could barely see anything. Mostly, because he had his eyes closed in fear they would be pierced by the twigs his head hit. He just held on to the hand that pulled him forward, trusting, without any reason to do so.

 

The Doctor stopped and Sherlock nearly ran into him. He opened his eyes and saw the Doctor's blue box standing just a few feet away from him.

 

Releasing his hand, the man walked towards his Police Box and opened the door just a bit. A beam of light appeared, making its way forward, becoming bigger on the grass until it reached a spot next to Sherlock.

 

“There is something I need to show you.” he said and took off Sherlock's hat, throwing it towards the boy, who caught it.

 

“If you trust me.” It was a question. But it was also a condition and Sherlock took a small step forward into the beam of the box’s light.

 

He nodded.

 

The Doctor grinned and opened the blue box completely. The light now illuminated the dark woods around them and blinded Sherlock. When he finally opened his eyes, his mouth fell open in awe. “Are you ready for an adventure?” the Doctor asked and reached out for Sherlock's hand.

 

Stepping inside the Police Box was like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Sherlock grabbed the handrail while walking towards the console, completely wonderstruck.

 

“It really is bigger on the inside.” His words came out like a whisper.

 

Wide eyed, he looked around. There were orange and yellow lights dancing around and in the middle there was a blue, shining floor, made of glass with a console right in the centre.

 

“Yes it is,” the Doctor said, standing next to it. “And it can make people feel very small and unimportant. But not you. No, you are far too big and important for that, Sherlock.”

“I'm not.” he shook his head “I'm small and seven years old. And my name is William, or Will. Sherlock is my middle name.”

 

The Doctor raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then changed his mind. His right hand wandered to a small pendant on a leather cord. It was a skull with an embedded emerald. “Does this look familiar to you?” the man asked Sherlock, who shook his head.

 

Yet, there was something deeply mesmerising about it and Sherlock stretched out his fingers after the skull. Touching it was weirdly comforting.

 

“I like it,” he said, “what is it?”

“That's what I was trying to find out. And then I found you. A little boy, looking for his hat. How mad must you be, to follow a strange man inside his box. I need to have a word with your parents I suppose.”

 

Sherlock looked frightened.

 

“No, no, no, I'd never do that, I'd be too scared they'd speak to my parents, too.” the Doctor replied and Sherlock didn't know whether he was joking or not.

 

“Is the skull really the only thing, you wanted to show me?” Sherlock asked, “because the box is much better.”

 

He put the pendant back into the Doctor’s hands and started to touch a few buttons on the console, without pushing them. ”It's called the TARDIS,” the Doctor said. “It can travel anywhere in time and space.” He touched the controls carefully, as if he was stroking them. The whole machine made a sound that Sherlock couldn't really name. But it sounded a bit like humming. The surface he was standing on, vibrated a little bit.

 

“Travel in time?” Sherlock asked suspicious. “Can you take me back to my last birthday and tell my parents to get me a dog?” he asked.

 

The Doctor smiled. “No, we can never go back to our own past!” he said, “but there are plenty of other things to explore. If you want to join me.” The Doctor raised one eyebrow and looked at Sherlock.

 

He was torn. He should go back and go to sleep, but there was a man standing in front of him, offering him the greatest adventure anyone could think of.

 

“You didn’t want to take me with you the last time,” Sherlock recalled the conversation from days ago.

“Well, I changed my mind.”

 

“I should go,” Sherlock said worrying. “Can you get me back home?”

 

The Doctor nodded and flipped a switch on the console. There was a sound unlike anything Sherlock had ever had heard and a minute later the Doctor said, “There you go. You're home.” 

 

Sherlock opened the door and there was the garden door just a couple of feet away. He took one step outside and opened it. The stone was still in place.

 

“Good night, Sherlock,” a voice said behind him.

“And good luck for tomorrow.”

 

The TARDIS’s door closed and Sherlock had to react fast. The Doctor's time machine howled and without giving it another thought, he pushed the door open and entered. A pair of grey eyes met his immediately. “Can we go on a pirate ship?” 


	2. SUMMER of 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor promised Sherlock to take him on a pirate ship. Right after landing they're being discovered by a furious, yet desperate Captain. With a crew member missing and a blind passenger on board, no one can see, the Doctor's and Sherlock's help might be useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock

As soon as the TARDIS landed, Sherlock ran to the door. The Doctor had previously directed him to the ship's wardrobe and Sherlock was now dressed in an attire that made him look like a young boy out of the late 17th century. He took one step outside and immediately realised the difference to his own century. The air smelled of urine and vomit with a note of alcohol in between.

“So this is it,” the Doctor whispered, standing close behind Sherlock, grabbing his shoulder with both hands. “A 17th century pirate ship. You have to be careful. Technically, we are the pirates now.”

Sherlock breathed in heavily with his mouth. He didn't dare to use his nose, knowing how bad the smell was.

“It smells like a toilet.”

The Doctor sniggered and let go of Sherlock's shoulders. He pulled out a device that he had earlier explained to him as a sonic screwdriver. The tip glowed green when he directed it at the door that separated them from the rest of the ship and with a loud crunch the lock went open.

Sherlock tried to walk silently, but it was impossible. He was too excited and the floorboards didn't exactly make it easier for him. Taking everything in, his young mind could process, he looked around wildly, exploring every bit he could see. Dark wooden boards cladded ceiling and floor and everything else. The only light they could see was coming from lanterns.  
On the left side, bars started to appear, exposing small chambers on the other side. Passing them, Sherlock jumped and made a shrieking sound.

There was a fish, an actual fish sitting behind bars, breathing slowly with his eyes wide open and yet it looked as if it was sleeping. Did fish sleep with their eyes open? Sherlock knew that somewhere inside his head there was the answer to that. He'd read something about that in a school book of his brother’s.  
“What is this?” Sherlock whispered. “Doctor?”  
The man behind him never got to reply because suddenly a different voice, hoarse and deep, answered instead. “Show yourself. What are you doing on my ship?”

The Doctor reacted faster than Sherlock's brain could think. He pulled out something that looked like an ID, with the only difference that it was blank. Nevertheless, the expression on the man's face changed immediately.  
“Sorry for interrupting,” the Doctor said, with his cheery voice, grinning as always. “We didn't want to cause any disturbance and that's why we hid down here.”  
He looked around and Sherlock's eyes followed. The TARDIS wasn't there any more. The man looked at them darkly with panic in his eyes. For a moment, Sherlock thought he would yell at them. He was big and had his bushy hair and beard all over his face. The light was dim, but Sherlock could still see that its colour was red.

"Come with me," he said and turned around.  
There weren't walking for very long when the man in front of them kicked open a door with his foot, grabbed the Doctor and Sherlock and shoved them inside. The door fell shut and another clicking noise came from outside the bars. The noise of a loaded gun.  
"No, no, no, no," the Doctor shouted, raising his arms in panic. Sherlock was paralysed. This was the worst luck anyone could have. He'd be killed on his first trip to the past.  
"Who are you? And don't tell me again that you are family of Rooker, I don't believe that!" Rooker? Sherlock was confused. What had the blank piece of paper told him?  
“Yes."  
Sherlock could see the Doctor stealing glances down on the paper lying next to him.  
"But we are." His tone became more confident.  
"His family. I am John Smith and this," he reached out his hand and grabbed Sherlock's right shoulder, "is my son.”  
"William," Sherlock added.  
"Rooker never told us anything about a family. Pirates usually don't have one." His face was tortured. If he believed them just a little bit, he didn't let it on.  
"That's why we hid," the Doctor said.  
The pirate seemed to struggle with himself. Then, he lowered the gun and opened the door again. "Come on," his face was still unfriendly, but Sherlock felt a bit safer this time, passing the man and walking up the stairs. He lead them up the stairs and sat them down at what seemed to be their dining table. If pirates even used such words.

“Captain Jacob Redbeard,” said the pirate, “welcome on the Black Mermaid.”

He put down a bottle and three glasses on the table. Sherlock looked back and forth between him and the Doctor with big eyes. There was surely no apple juice in this bottle.

"I still don't trust you," Captain Redbeard said, "but we've been looking for our friend for two weeks now. Still no trace. We lose people, that's nothing new. But Rooker is the heart and soul of this ship. He was her original Captain.”  
“We were under attack,” Redbeard continued his story once he sat down and poured the rum in all their glasses. “There was a ship, bigger and mightier than anyone of us had ever seen. It was made out of steel and not even our strongest canons could break its walls. We didn't want their gold. In a situation like this a man only cares about his life, nothing else. Rooker of course, showed his loyalty and bravery again and took off with a grenade to the heart of that ship. We never heard it go off. The ship just flew away and took our friend with it.” “Fly,” Sherlock heard the Doctor whisper. Confirming to himself that this could only be a space ship.

“Do you think he's still alive?” Sherlock asked with a sad voice that he thought most convincing.  
“Well, we're not giving up on our Captain, eh?” Another pirate, a skinny one with not much hair entered the room. He might not have a lot of hair, but that bit he had stood up in all directions.  
“Just because some metal men took him.”  
“Metal men?” the Doctor seemed alarmed.  
“They weren't metal,” Redbeard said.  
“Some here assume them to be, though.”  
He looked at his scruffy comrade through his bushy red eyebrows.  
“Did you get a closer look at them?” The Doctor asked them.  
“No, they were gone before we could get any look at anything. Rooker, if he's still alive…”  
Redbeard paused. “Rooker is the only one who knows what they look like and he's not here.”  
“So,” Sherlock said, “is there any connection to the fish in the basement?”

Redbeard held the lantern in front of them so Sherlock and the Doctor could see where they were going.  
"You cannot be serious," the Captain said.  
“I know this ship better than anyone and you are telling me that we have a blind passenger on board? Except you?”  
Sherlock and the Doctor looked awkwardly at each other. The confusion in the Captain's eyes was visible and Sherlock was scared it might turn to hate.

The Doctor strode forward and stopped at a door made out of steel bars. He looked inside and when Sherlock got closer he could see it again. It was an actual merman. In the reversed sense. The legs were humanoid but from the waist up it was a fish. Sherlock realised his mouth was open and he shut it immediately. He'd never seen something so interesting before and his head was going crazy.

“What are you both looking at?” Redbeard sounded confused. And so was the Doctor.  
“I think your metal men gave you an exchange.”  
”There is nothing here. What are you talking about?” The confusion and anger in Redbeard’s voice turned into astonishment when he heard a strange sound coming from a corner in the cell.

It sounded like someone was speaking under water and most of the noise was gone when it reached the surface. But the Doctor seemed to understand it and he had his face squeezed through the bars, trying to understand more of what the merman said.

"Why can only we see you?" Which was answered by something Sherlock understood as English, but it was still too dull to actually hear. For the Doctor it seemed to be enough. "Sorry," he said to Redbeard, "I cannot give you an answer to that.”  
"Where do you see them?" Redbeard asked, with sweat on his forehead.  
The Doctor pointed to the merman. A motion of Redbeard’s hand indicated that he was seeing something completely else. It moved to a dagger on his belt. "There's nothing in this cell but a barrel."

Redbeard decided to tell no one else about the merman in the cell below. But he did tell the whole crew that he's found the brother and nephew of their beloved Rooker. Their cover up as the concerned and adventurous father and son that hid for weeks in the ships brig was apparently believable, even despite Redbeard’s distrust from the beginning. It was a fact Sherlock started to despise. Who could actually fall for this? If there had been a bit more time, he could've thought of a dozen other stories.

The pirates took the appearance of their friends’ family as an opportunity for a celebration and soon all of them were drunk and the Doctor, although he may not have drunk anything, was enjoying himself way too much. This left Sherlock wandering on the deck and exploring. He'd read everything about ships and the thought, that only 2 days ago he'd been playing outside with Mycroft a game he was now actually living, gave him goosebumps. The moonlight met the wooden surface of the ship and Sherlock could see how crooked the floorboards were. But there was something else, something similar to gunpowder lying around. Except that gunpowder was black or at least a very dark grey and it didn't shine in the moonlight. This powder, on the contrary, emitted a fluorescent blue light. Sherlock grabbed a hand full and took a closer look. There was nothing he could think of that this resembled to. Leaving it where it was, he turned around and ran back down the stairs.

The Doctor was adapting to the pirate life quite well. They were singing songs, drinking rum and Sherlock felt a bit like Bilbo, when the dwarves came to visit. This was a part of pirate life he still had to adapt to. Sneaking through all singing pirates he found the Doctor in the middle and tugged at this sleeve.

“I have to show you something,” he shouted in his ear and pulled the Doctor with him. They ran up the stairs again and got to the powder that thankfully still glowed in the moonlight.

“Marvellous,” the Doctor said and reached for his screwdriver inside his pocket. A second later he nearly breathed the powder in, with his face so close to it, it glowed blue as well.

“Oi, Doctor, we are missing you down there.” A pirate by the name of Sawyer, as Redbeard had introduced him, had obviously followed them up to the deck.

“It is most extraordinary,” the Doctor remarked without even recognising Sawyers presence, “their molecules work together like nothing I have ever seen. And the blue light…”

The doctor licked a bit of the powder off his hand. “It's not reflecting the moonlight. It seems like the particles are working.” He looked at Sherlock who was amazed again. “You can try it by the way, it's delicious.” The Doctor said to Sherlock and grabbed Sawyers glass of rum, emptied it and shoved a bit of powder in it. “Oi!” the man protested, although the Doctor didn't let him get that far with it. “Please get Captain Redbeard,” he said, “I need to show him something.”

The night didn't seem to end. A few minutes later they were back down in the merman's cabin. Redbeard seemed to have adjusted to fact that there was a merman living downstairs and was now more occupied by looking at the powder found on the deck.

“We have found something.” the Doctor said to the merman.  
“A powder, glowing blue in the night. Does it seem familiar to you?”

The merman started to speak again and this time, Sherlock understood it better. It turned out the merman's name was Quar and his crew had abandoned him.

“I don’t know, it doesn’t exist where I’m from.”  
“Do you know someone who could know? Your crew perhaps?” the Doctor had his hands now clasped around the bars. “Where is your crew?”  
“It's somewhere in the atmosphere,” he said and Sherlock could still identify a slight underwater tone to his voice.  
“I can feel it. But they're looking for a way to escape, not to come back to me.”  
“I'm sorry,” the Doctor said heartfelt. Sherlock could hear it in his voice. He felt incredibly sorry for Quar.  
“Why were you here in the first place. Why were you visiting exactly this planet?”  
“Trade. When we wanted to leave, they wouldn't let us.”  
“You didn't get through the intergalactic customs service, and now you're stuck at the terminal,” the Doctor concluded.  
“We were missing a valuable piece of our most ancient goods. They wouldn't let us go,” Quar said. “You lost your passport,” Sherlock said and looked at the Doctor. “Can we help him?”  
The Doctor looked at him a bit longer than usual and then faced Quar again. “We will try to find out what happened. That much I can promise you.” Quar didn't answer again.

Sherlock's head buzzed from all that talk about different planets and galaxies and he decided to ask the Doctor more about it once they got time for themselves. Redbeard looked just as confused.

“Did you find out anything about the blue powder?” he asked and both looked a bit guilty. Neither of them had gone really deep into that topic.

“No,” the Doctor said, “but tomorrow is another day, we can talk then. Let him rest.”  
“Doctor, can we not give him a proper cabin to sleep in?” Sherlock asked and heard Redbeard snort.

For him, it must look like they were actually trying to find a bed for a barrel to sleep in. “I can't move.” Quar said, before any of them were able to say something. “I tried. But I'm restricted to a five feet radius.” The Doctor and Sherlock looked at each other. “We'll get you out of here,” the time lord said. A bit surer of himself than before.

There were more pleasant ways to be woken up than how Sherlock and the Doctor experienced it the next morning. Not that Sherlock had a particularly good sleep in the beginning. They had been given hammocks and Sherlock was not used to be sleeping on anything else but a bed. It took him a few hours, despite his tiredness, to fall asleep. The snoring of the other pirates didn't do him any good either. But being woken up by canon shots was a completely different thing. One of them seemed to have hit the ship and Sherlock flew out of his hammock like a rock. Thankfully, dressing wasn't necessary because he had slept in his day clothing anyway.

Before he could turn around to see what damage had been done, the Doctor grabbed him by his hand and shouted “Run!”

A couple of feet away Sherlock got the chance to look outside. There was a giant ship, much bigger than the Black Mermaid. Its appearance told Sherlock that it was a ship of the British government, he could, after all, spot the Union Jack high up over the sails.

“Get down!” Captain Readbeard shouted at them, while he kept running down some stairs from the deck. “You are not experienced enough to be handling this, so stay away!” A man, missing both his front teeth, Sherlock remembered his name to be Kipp, grabbed them both by their collars and dragged them downstairs.

Sherlock didn't know how exactly this place was safer than upstairs and he didn't like it. The Doctor, by the looks of it, disliked it just as much since he was already at the next door, pointing his screwdriver at the lock.

“The probability of dying down here is just as high as up there, didn't they think?” Sherlock remarked.  
“I'm gonna get us out, just wait.” Sherlock looked out again and saw the ship just a few feet away from them.  
“I got it,” the Doctor shouted, “run!”

Sherlock felt the adrenaline in his blood again and started to follow his friend, when suddenly an ear-shattering bang resonated through the chamber that was accompanied by a giant hole in the wall. The English had bombed the Black Mermaid.

“Get out of the way!” Sawyer, followed by another man stormed into the room and shoved Sherlock out of the way. He and his friend suddenly took a floorboard, which was loose compared to the rest, and started carrying to the opening. Sherlock had not completely forgotten about the Doctor but the whole situation had distracted him so much, he wasn’t moving any more.

“What are you doing?” The two pirates didn't acknowledge him and carried on moving the floorboard out of the hole until it reached the destroyed wall of their enemy's ship.  
“Now,” one of them said.  
“Go on.”  
“What, me? You weigh a lot less than than I do! I won't be even able to get over there, the wood will break,” Sawyer protested.  
“Well, you idiot suggested it and I can't find anyone more insane.”  
“Just because I have better ideas doesn't mean I actually have to do it.”  
“What about the boy?” the man's eyes found Sherlock and Sawyer turned around.  
“Oh yes, that is a splendid idea.”  
“What?” Sherlock asked, moving backwards, not sure what to do.  
“Come here and look outside.” Sherlock moved towards the hole, still keeping out of reach in case the pirates would try to do something to him.  
“Do you think you can get over there and snitch some gold for us? The English must've left something on board before they left.”

Sherlock didn't reply.  
The Doctor was waiting outside for him and his parents would ground him for years if they knew what was going on in his head. But he just grinned and it put a giant frown on the pirates' foreheads.

“I'll guess the money will be on the quarterdeck?” he asked while stepping with one foot on the wooden plank. Both pirates looked at him, bewildered.

“Yes.” Sawyer said, “or the saloon. Go on, we'll be waiting here for you.”

Sherlock got down on his knees to get a better grip and moved forward. “Is he mad?” Sawyers friend whispered to him. “I'm not sure right now. We'll see.”

Playing pirates on a make believe ship on a tree with your big brother was one thing. Being a pirate on an actual pirate ship, invading another ship, stealing gold and walking on a plank was another.

Sherlock felt the adrenaline in his blood rushing up while he went further on the wooden board towards the ship. With the sweat on his forehead and the wind ruffling his hair, he felt more alive than ever before. Finally reaching the giant ship, he got off the board and looked back.

The ship was moving very slow and the distance to the pirate ship was actually bigger than what he'd had thought in the first place. If he wanted to get back safely, he'd needed to be quick.

Sherlock ran. He knew where he had to go. He knew what ships like these looked on the inside from library books and films. But it still was a completely different situation to actually be on one. He climbed a set of broken stairs, probably destroyed by the previous bombing, and ran down a hall that looked already quite prosperous. He couldn't be that far from the place where the officers and the captain usually live. That's where he suspected their valuables must be hidden. It was unlikely, he thought, that they had taken all of it with them while leaving the ship on their small boats.

Opening the door at the end of the hall, Sherlock found himself lucky. The room he was standing in, was full of cabinets containing vases, golden plates, a set of jewellery and many more things that shined. Very quickly, Sherlock grabbed a quilt from the sofa next to the fireplace and put it together to form a bag. He took everything. Everything that shined, everything that looked like gold and everything that looked expensive. He had a queasy feeling in his gut, thinking about what his mother might say if she saw him now but that disappeared immediately when he heard footsteps coming from the outside. He ducked immediately under the desk where he was trying to steal a wallet from.

“Captain, I swear it's on the boat, I don't think anyone could’ve accidentally left it here,” a man said, sounding desperate.  
“Major Williams, I've had enough of your accidents,” a deep voice replied, sighing at the word accidents.  
“If I am sacked for failing as this ship's captain, I will make sure you are never getting an employment again. Now where is my wallet?”

He began searching through several drawers and Sherlock desperately tried to make himself smaller while holding the bag in his one hand and a brown leather wallet in his other one. His brain was going crazy. He took the coins out of the wallet and replaced them with the least valuable looking items in his bag, a couple of porcelain figures. Carefully, he put the leather wallet on the floor, about a feet away from the place where he was hiding. Major Williams was luckily examining the left side of the desk.

“Captain,” he said and grabbed it from the floor.  
“I thought it was on one of the boats?” the Captain was obviously not happy about his Major and grabbed the wallet from his hand, making his way back from where he came from.

It took Sherlock a minute to make sure they were gone and a few seconds more until he was brave enough to exhale loudly.

The way back was as arduous as the way there was adventurous. Sherlock did finally get back to the place where the English ship was connected to pirates’ one. The hole was giant, presenting a marvellous view over the Caribbean sea but the plank, that connected the two ships, was gone. Sherlock had been too slow.

A wave of panic rolled over him and he sat down at the edge to see how far their ship had gone. He wasn't someone who started crying easily, even at his age. Mycroft had made sure of that. But the distance the ship had travelled made his stomach drop. He had no idea what to do. Were the others thinking of him? Would they try to keep up? Their own main sail was broken while this ship's clearly wasn't and so it was obviously faster than theirs.

He leaned against the ship’s wall, exhausted and was for a moment event considering jumping down into the water. But then, a sound as comforting as the voice of a parent came from behind him and Sherlock turned around as the Doctor's blue box appeared out of thin air.

“Didn't I at some point tell you not to wander off?” the Doctor asked and Sherlock felt as if he was scolded by his parents.

The anger was gone very quickly and once they were back safely on the damaged ship, he was left celebrating with the other pirates who had put the Captain's hat on his tiny head and sang songs about gold and rum and beautiful women.

“We should buy more rum!” shouted one of them, “we should get this ship fixed first, you idiot,” another.  
“I would do well with a few night off board in a tavern.”  
“You mean a tavern with young, pretty ladies, right?”  
“But there is still Rooker, we need to find him,” Kipp said and the playful atmosphere was gone all of a sudden.

All the pirates that were boasting around a second ago, were suddenly really quiet.

“Well, we can't go on like this,” the pirate with the little hair that stuck up in every direction, said.  
“We have a broken main sail and a giant hole in our ship.”  
“We have to rest a few days,” Captain Redbeard said thoughtfully.  
“We should go to the treasure island.”

There was a loud “Ohh” coming from different directions. Two other men next to Sherlock looked at each other with gleaming eyes and Sherlock felt the excitement rise up in him again, no matter how tired he was.

With his right hand he touched the two loose coins in his pocket. He still hadn't given it them to Redbeard and he didn't plan to. There had to be something that he could take home with him as a reminder that this wasn't a crazy dream he was having, after all.

“Treasure island it is!” the other pirates shouted, tapped their glasses of rum on the table one more time, and drank the beverage up with one sip.

The party did go on for a while but Sherlock was too tired to participate any longer in it. After he gave the Captain's hat back unwillingly to Jacob Redbeard, he went to his hammock. Lying there still, his right hand moved down to his trousers' pockets. He pulled out the coins and eyed them one more time, holding one up in the air where the moonlight hit it. It looked different from any other coin he'd seen and he'd seen a lot in books and collections his brother had.

On one side there were circles and lines, Sherlock reckoned this to be a number. On the other side there was a strange face or a half of a face. It resembled their fish friend they had left in the brig. A door opened and he could hear the party from the other end of the ship. Sherlock put the coin back into his pocket as he heard footsteps coming his way.

“Doctor,” Sherlock asked when he saw who the person was. The time lord walked up to Sherlock's hammock.

“It was brave what you did today. Brave and reckless,” he said to him.

Sherlock didn't answer.

“I found something that I didn't give to the Captain,” he said, “I wanted to show it to you, first.”

He took out the coins again and handed them to the Doctor.

“I've found this inside the Captain's desk,” he said.  
“The other Captain. On the ship we fought today,” he added when he saw the confusion on his friend's face.  
“It looks -” “- alien,” the Doctor concluded.  
“Yes. This numbering system is common in some galaxies.”  
“Galaxies?” Sherlock's eyes went wide: “You've been to other galaxies?”

The Doctor frowned. “I'm sure at some point I must've told you that my Tardis travels through time and space.”  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “so you meant…”  
“Actual space.”

The time lord grinned like a little kid.

Sherlock's heart beat faster and he sat up as straight as possible in his hammock. “Doctor, if this coin is alien, it must belong to Quar.”  
“Yes, that's what I've been thinking.”  
“What if it’s the missing piece his crew needs and that's why they can't leave?”

The Doctor had his eyes fixed on Sherlock's now. “We have to tell Quar.” Sherlock climbed out of his hammock, and hastily tried to catch up with his alien friend.

Quar's “room” was as depressing as ever. To a stranger it might seem the only excitement the poor individual got was when Sherlock and the Doctor came in running as if the world was ending.

“We have an idea,” the Doctor said, coming to rest. “About your crew,” Sherlock added.

He opened his hand and showed the coin to the merman. “Does it seem familiar to you?” he asked hopefully as Quar looked at the golden coin. There was a small doubt, deep in Sherlock's stomach, that made him sick. He hoped he was right, he needed to be right.

“It's a collector's piece of our nation's currency,” he marvelled.  
“Where did you get that?” Sherlock looked unsure at the Doctor, who gave him a small nod.  
“I stole it.” He blushed.  
“From a Captain's desk,” he stretched the last word while saying it, as if he was scared to actually say it out loud.  
“Is it maybe... is it a part of the treasure that your people need to leave the planet?”

Quar looked up, as far as a merman with a head of a fish could.

“Yes, but it's not just money. It was originally a jar of the most valuable pieces of our nation's treasury. This could be a part of it. But the whole is still gone.”  
“Do you know where it could be? Are they searching for it?”

Sherlock tried to investigate as far as it was possible. “Probably. If they have not found a replacement yet,” Quar said.  
“Replacement? If they can use a replacement, why are they still here?” Sherlock asked bewildered.

The Doctor moved next to him. “Not every replacement is accepted. If it doesn't have the same worth, they can't use it.” Sherlock tried to think harder than ever before. But before the idea he had took a shape in his head, the Doctor spoke again.

“The mermen put something on our ship just to replace something on theirs. Quar looks to us like a barrel. At least to the pirates. Rooker could now be on their ship and that's why he didn't get to blow it up.”  
“He is the replacement for the treasure for them now,” Sherlock interrupted him, wanting to say something, too, “an object just like Quar is for us and that's the reason why he cannot move. Objects can't move. They're trying to replace their treasure, the object, their passport, by using a real person just by bewitching them-”

Sherlock had to gasp for air. He had talked too fast, the words just spilling out of his mouth and he didn't know where they were coming from. It just made sense. Quar had his fish mouth wide open, which looked weirder than everything Sherlock had seen him doing so far. The Doctor was just standing there, his lips in a smile. He shook his head in disbelief.

“Doctor, what if that's why they can't leave. They don't have the whole treasure. There are still those coins,” Sherlock held them up, “and who knows how many there are left.”

Sherlock was done. It was like everything in his head came together and somehow made sense. But would it made sense to everyone else? He gave the Doctor one questioning glance, hoping he would understand.

“Brilliant!” he gasped and laughed. With one motion he hugged Sherlock tight and pulled him off the floor. “You are a genius!” he nearly screamed when he put Sherlock back on the floor. “Mad, but a genius.”

Sherlock smiled like crazy now and both of them looked at Quar, who, for the first time on this ship showed a desire to live. He had stood up and moved as close to them as he could.

“Please get me out of here,” he said and Sherlock felt a sudden wave of sympathy for him. He had been abandoned by his crew and yet wanted to return to them. “We'll try our best,” the Doctor said. “Give us time and we'll talk to the crew.” Sherlock nodded and looked at the Doctor who gave Quar a small smile and then made his way back upstairs.

They agreed on telling Redbeard the next day about their new discovery. Sherlock slept better this night, than he had ever done before. It was partly because he had slightly gotten used to the wild pirate life and partly also because he had finally proven to be useful.

He had in one day, robbed a ship of the British Navy and then deduced a huge piece in the giant puzzle of mystery that had been going on since they'd discovered Quar. He fell asleep feeling proud and this was something he hadn't felt in a while. When Sherlock woke up again, he had the same feeling he usually felt on the first day of summer holidays.

He got up and went up the deck before going down to have breakfast. It was sunny and the air tasted like salt, when Sherlock licked his lips. They had changed their location enormously, he realised, when he saw the island to his right. It looked like an island out of a picture book. There were palm trees, something that looked like a cave on the far side of the island and right in the middle there was an enormous rock.

But what fascinated Sherlock way more than this, was the bright light coming from below, a few feet away from where they were. It looked weird, nearly alien. And with that thought, Sherlock ran back down to seek the Doctor.

The ship's kitchen, if one could call it that, was completely different at breakfast time than it was in the evening. The entire atmosphere had changed from a party to a hangover and it seemed like no one actually knew what they were supposed to do with the day. In a corner, Sherlock saw the Doctor and Redbeard talking to each other and walked up to them. They seemed to be in a discussion.

Ignoring everything his mother had taught him about not interrupting adults, he started talking right away.  
“There's something big and shiny outside. And it's under water.” The Doctor and Captain Redbeard exchanged a look. Redbeard seemed to be contemplating something, before saying, “Show me, boy.”

Sherlock lead the way. Being back upstairs, the ship was closer now to the silvery surface. “It's theirs.” Captain Redbeard said and his tan face went white. Sherlock was sure he'd never seen him as scared and determined as right now.

“Pirates, gather!” he shouted and walked up to the ship's wheel. All men on deck gathered in front of the wheel and a few of them seemed to search for the others downstairs. Once they were all together, Redbeard began his speech.

“Pirates of the Black Mermaid, before we go on our treasure island, take a look to your right. There is the ship, we saw the day our friend and Captain, Rooker, disappeared.”

Sherlock heard men begin to mumble and two or three shot the silvery object below a slightly terrified look.

“There's a big chance that we are gonna meet the people responsible for his disappearance,” Redbeard continued, “I want you to stick together and be brave in the face of danger. We will get our friend back and we'll do it together and all so importantly, alive. We will not be on the losing side tonight! Do you hear me?”

Captain Redbeard had been shouting the last few words and the crew answered. “AYE!” Redbeard nodded and stepped back down. It was time to get to work.

The tension while crossing the shallow sea in tiny little boats was crushing. They had split up in groups of five to get to the island and Sherlock could see the mermen's ship from where he was. There was a smidge of guilt in his stomach.

They had left Quar on the ship after all. Sherlock was sure the pirates and Redbeard wanted to hold him for ransom but he also knew that Quar wouldn't be of any use to the mermen. If the didn't get their treasure, they wouldn't leave. And right now, since it was very likely that Rooker didn't work as planned, Sherlock didn't know why the should spare him.

It felt weird to touch the ground again. After living on a ship for maybe a week, he had forgotten that the actual ground didn't move under his feet. Walking felt strange as well. He followed the others into the jungle of the island that didn't seem small anymore from this point of view. It all looked the same but somehow the Captain knew exactly where to go. He strode through the trees and bushes like he'd lived there his whole live and maybe, Sherlock thought, that was also the case.

“Where do you think they keep their treasures?” Sherlock had whispered to the Doctor, who had only put his finger against his lips to keep him quiet.

After what felt like an hour of walking, they did reach a small door. It was covered by giant green leaves and Sherlock would not have seen it, if he'd been there on his own. One after another they lit the torches, that they've been carrying around after leaving the ship and went down a cave that started at the entrance.

Sherlock tried to get a place somewhere in the middle, not wanting to be the very last one in this queue. Thankfully, the Doctor seemed to think alike and was right behind him. The pirate walking right in front of him seemed to be very interested in the walls of the cave.

His fingers kept tracing the ceiling and walls with only a few breaks, where he put them in his mouth to taste them. “Wet,” he stated after a few minutes and scrunched up his nose. “But not from the sea,” Sherlock said, after he did the same with his fingers.  
“It's not salty. It’s-”  
“Alien,” the Doctor concluded quietly and took out his sonic screwdriver.

The man's eyes next to him went wide but he didn't say anything. The Doctor scanned the cave's walls a few times while walking and then just put his screwdriver away. “What's happening?” Sherlock asked.  
“They're here,” the Doctor whispered in his left ear, “they're awaiting us.”

And in that moment the ship's crew entered a room full of gold.

Sherlock had never seen so much gold before. It wasn't the worth that amazed him. It was the colour. There was light coming from slits in the ceiling, illuminating the room to a certain degree, making it look as if he'd fallen into a jar of honey. It was bright and he wanted to close his eyes, but couldn't. When he tore his eyes away from the gold, he noticed they weren't alone in this place.

These mermen seemed a lot more dangerous than the Quar had looked. The three in the front were wearing armour and although Sherlock still found the fish eyes to be quite ridiculous, they looked serious and deadly. There was a quiet clicking noise coming from their direction and for a moment Sherlock thought they had a different language than his friend back on the ship, or at least a different accent. Then he noticed the guns in their hands.

“You have something that belongs to us,” the merman who stood in the front row said and Sherlock looked up to the pirates to reply. It took him a few seconds to remember, that they couldn't understand them and felt a horrible burden crash down on him, realising that he and the Doctor had to manage the situation alone.

“Well you have something that belongs to us,” the Doctor repeated it composed and quietly, “so how do you want to proceed?”

The mermen's leader raised its head and looked around the room full of gold. “Well, you seem to know a lot about gold. Help us to find ours and we'll give you back your friend.”

“There is a lot of gold in here, how can we distinguish this from yours?” The mermen's leader frowned and looked at the merman to his right. Grabbing into his pocket he fished out a coin and threw it into the Doctor's direction. Sherlock caught it and immediately recognised it. It was branded with the same marks as the coins he found in the Captain's wallet. So they had been right.

“You will get your friend back safely,” the merman in front of him said threateningly, “when we have every single coin back.” He held out his hand.

Hesitatingly, Sherlock threw the coin back at him.

“One tiny, question,” the Doctor said and raised his finger as if he asked for permission, “Why can’t you look for them.”

It was a valid question. But the mermen didn’t seem to like it and a gurgling noise came from their side. Some of the loaded guns now pointed directly at them. “Okay well,” the time lord said, “we shall find them.” After nodding into the merman's direction, he turned around and walked away.

After the Doctor had explained the situation to the crew of pirates, he returned to Sherlock who sat on a big, round rock which he had covered with his jacket. Although they were in the middle of the Caribbean, it was quite cold and everything he touched was wet.

“Are you okay?” he asked and sat down next to the boy. Throughout their whole journey the Doctor had not once asked Sherlock this question. And surprisingly, even though he had not missed being mothered on the pirate ship, he was utterly relieved now, that someone cared. He was embarrassed to let his fear show, so he just shrugged and shifted closer to the Doctor who put an arm around the little boy's shoulder.

“You have been braver and smarter than any child I've ever met,” the Doctor said, looking into Sherlock's eyes, “and I have met some extraordinary little human beings.”

Sherlock smiled a little bit and leaned into the Doctor's hug. “So what's the plan?” he asked yawning, but still excited.

Down here, he had no idea what time of day it was.

“Well, we are gonna become treasure hunters!” the time lord said and jumped off the rock again. Which is marvellous, I always wanted to hunt for treasures, didn't you?” Sherlock started grinning now and the Doctor reached out for him. Grabbing his hand, Sherlock pulled himself up and stood a bit straighter than before.

“Okay then,” the Doctor started his speech, “somewhere on this island is the rest of the mermen's treasure. Once we retrieve it, Rooker will be released and we can hand over Quar. Everyone will be happy.”

Redbeard had a somber expression on his face, as if the Doctor's speech was a bit too happy for him.

“Now, you three will look through the far side of the cave, you four the front, the two of you the tunnels behind us and you-” the Doctor took a step back from a bulky, broad shouldered pirate next to him, “you and the rest can search the tunnels in front,” he faced the Captain again.

“Captain, are you ready to explore the island with me?” Redbeard nodded and murmuring about the tasks to do, the pirates spread out.

“Wait!” Sherlock stood up.  
“What do I do?”  
The Doctor had simply left him out.  
“Stay where you are!” Redbeard commanded and the Doctor, while following him, stepped up to Sherlock and took him to the side.

“This is not a ship, where you can explore everything without any danger. There are men here that could hurt you and I'm not bringing a shredded Sherlock back to his mother to puzzle back together,” he ruffled his hair, “you've been wonderful so far. Now please, don't wander off.”

The Doctor shot him one last look and followed Redbeard into the darkness of the tunnels, leaving a disappointed Sherlock behind, who could only shout, “My name is William,” after them.

Of course he wandered off. Sherlock sat on his rock for five minutes when he got so bored that he nearly fell asleep. Eyeing the pirates from aside he chose a moment when the few of them that were searching the cave where completely indulged in their search that he stood up and walked to the nearest tunnel there was. He remembered the way back up, the only difficulty would be to avoid crew members in the caves. Calculating every turn he took, he finally got back out. It was already night time and the only thing lighting up his surroundings were the stars and moon above. Deciding to explore a different part of the island, Sherlock took a path that would lead back to the beach, just a different one than where they came from.

Taking one step after another, the only sound he heard was his own breath and the chirping of crickets that dissolved into the quietness of the night. He had walked what had felt a mile, when he started to find single blue grains of sand on the ground. Their blue was sometimes stronger and sometimes lighter, depending on how much moonlight hit the ground and Sherlock knew instantaneously that this was the blue powder he'd seen on the deck of the ship.

There was more when he walked down the path until there was an unimpaired line of blue powder leading his way. Nearly running, Sherlock reached the end of it, which was nothing but a hole in the ground. His stomach and his mind were going crazy. He didn't want to return now but if he went down that cave, whatever was expecting him there, could hurt him.

And oh, his mum would kill him if she saw him now, he thought, while taking a step down into the cave.

It was not as wet as the last cave, that's what he realised first. Also it was not as dark, since the blue powder illuminated the walls and ceiling. But what drew in his attention a lot more, was the pool of water in the centre which gave off a strong yellow glow the closer Sherlock got to it, and when he finally stood at the very edge, he could see familiar coins lying on the ground, scattered around with a solid glass jar in the middle.

Sherlock let out a cry of victory, jumping up in the air and raising his fists. No one, no one but him had come that far. All of them had been looking in the wrong place and he, he who'd been told to stay put, found the mermen's treasure. He was grinning all over his face and let himself down into the pool. It was by no means deep and Sherlock had already learned how to swim, so he dived down to the bottom after taking off his clothes, starting to fill up the jar with the golden coins.

There were plenty of them and not only coins. Shiny, green emeralds and strong, blue sapphires covered the rocks and sand on the very bottom. From time to time Sherlock had to dig through the sand to get to the remaining gems and gold because the ground was covered heavily by the blue powder. After a couple of dives he had filled up the jar completely and couldn't find any more coins in the pool. He pulled himself up and put the jar next to himself, a glow of achievement on his face.

He could’ve gone back, but the moon had hid himself behind a dark cloud and so Sherlock lay down next to the cavern’s entrance, where the warmth of the Caribbean night let him fall asleep.

He didn't remember having anything around his wrist and so the unknown weight woke him up. Dawn was already breaking and when he stretched and turned around to examine the strange, tight grip he shrieked in shock as he saw a thin long snake around his arm. It was venomous, that much he knew and neither Sherlock's shaking arm nor his crying helped him much when the snake sank its teeth into his wrist. After grabbing it by its head and violently removing it, Sherlock threw it into the bushes outside and walked back into the cave. He hadn't even spent a second to think of all the animals that could kill him in this jungle and after he sat down, tears started running down his cheeks.

His wrist started to swell as the venom made its way through his veins. There was pain, of course- burning like a fire through his arms- but even more there were the realisations that came one after another into his mind. He would never go to primary school or see his mum and dad again and even Mycroft, who was ignoring him most of the time, made him cry more. There was no antidote that Sherlock could think of, he knew enough to identify the snake but not to heal himself from its venom. In defeat he let his legs into the water again and stared at the the two tiny holes. It did hurt less, for some reason and when he looked up, the devilish animal had actually slithered back into the cave. Sherlock wouldn't give it the satisfaction of biting him a second time and let himself fall into the pool.

It took him a second to realise that something was different. His feet touched the blue powder below and stirred it up. But instead of going back to the ground, it floated up directly to Sherlock's arm and a thin layer of blue grains lay itself over the injured spot. Sherlock's eyes went wide. He tried to get deeper and touch the bottom with his wrist and when he finally got there the swelling was nearly gone. There was no logical explanation for what had happened and there didn't need to be one. The swelling was gone, Sherlock was healed and the little boy's mind was going crazy without an explanation for this miracle.

He did dive up twice to check if the air was clear and when there were no snakes around both times, Sherlock got out of the water and immediately put on his clothes and grabbed the jar, making his way back to the other cave.

“I told you not to wander off,” the Doctor was more relieved than mad at him, when he saw Sherlock again. But Sherlock could see the worry on his face before hugging him as tight as his short arms would allow him.

“I've got it, Doctor,” he said proudly.  
“I've got the mermen's gold!”

The Doctor put Sherlock down and looked at him intensely. Then his eyes went down to the jar of gold Sherlock had put on the ground before hugging him.

“You are extraordinary,” he said, grinning, after getting down to Sherlock's height and hugged him again. The pirates who were there had started cheering and looking for the rest that were still in the tunnels and Sherlock carefully opened the lid and threw the few missing coins from the Captain's wallet in there.

The mermen were still in lower level of the cave system. Sherlock and the Doctor had decided to go there again and had sent the pirates off to get Quar, who should now look like the other mermen. The pirates were confused and some of them even infuriated that a creature like this had lived with them for so long and they didn't even notice but most of them were relieved. They would see their friend Rooker again.

The Doctor held up the jar, walking up to the mermen in victory. Their eyes glistened and slowly all of them gathered in the middle of the room to eye the most valuable thing they had ever lost.  
“We have your gold,” the Doctor said and lowered it back down, holding it close to his body, “and we want our friend Rooker back.”

The mermen's leader turned around and whispered something to his crew. Seconds later, two crew members dragged a skinny and exhausting looking man with blond hair and a beard out of the crowd.

“Place the jar on that rock,” their leader commanded and the Doctor followed his orders, placing the jar of gold on the stone on his left. Rooker was released immediately and while he slowly made his way forward, not knowing who his saviours were, the mermen behind him started to examine their regained gold. Sherlock realised the soldier's hand jerking once he touched some pieces of the gold.

“Just a little piece of advice for you,” the Doctor suddenly said.  
“When you need someone to help you, don't kidnap their friend, just ask. On this planet this is the civil way of communication.”

He was mad at them, Sherlock could see it. The leader just wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something bad and told his crew to leave before saying,  
“Well, we'll see what mistakes you'll make when you visit our planet, Doctor.” He nearly spit out the last word and after a second he was gone, too.

Sherlock and the Doctor had sat Rooker down at the entrance of the cave telling him that his crew would be back in a minute. Rooker was tired and thankfully didn't ask many questions. He knew where he was and trusted his crew enough to find him, so the Doctor and Sherlock went back to the beach on their own.

“I think they were allergic to the blue powder,” Sherlock explained, after telling the whole story of how he found the treasure to the Doctor.  
“That's why they couldn't get it.”  
“Yes, that could be the case,” the Doctor said thoughtfully, “but still, they could have asked.”

“Should we say good bye to them?” he looked up to the Doctor, who seemed to remember something they had forgotten.  
“Maybe... it's gonna be a little bit difficult to explain how we got on the ship, if they find out, we didn't know Rooker at all.”

Sherlock, of course, had to agree. “Who’s first on the ship?” the Doctor asked and grinned at his little travel companion. Smiling, Sherlock ran off.

Being in the TARDIS felt different and Sherlock knew that once he was in his own bed again it would feel even weirder. During the week on the pirate ship he had nearly forgotten about school and about, even though he would never admit it to his family, his mum and dad.

With the familiar sound the Doctor landed the TARDIS and looked at Sherlock who was standing a few feet away from him.

“So…,” he softly asked with a grin on his face.  
“Are we meeting again?”

“Again?” Sherlock nearly shouted, “I'm not leaving you. I'm not leaving the TARDIS. I don't wanna go.”  
“You have a childhood to live,” the time lord said firmly, “You have to go to school and become the person you are supposed to be one day.”  
“Are you saying, I'm gonna be a different person when I'm coming with you? School is boring, I learn more when I'm with you. I’m-”  
“Shhh,” the Doctor tried to calm Sherlock, putting his hand on the boy's shoulders,  
“It's gonna be okay, it's all gonna be ok!” he turned Sherlock around and got down to his height.

“How about every summer holidays? We can meet every summer holidays. I'll come to your house, you'll come with me, we'll have a giant adventure! Deal?”

Sherlock did not seem to be content with this suggestion but it was at least something. “Deal.” he whispered and then nearly started to giggle when the Doctor ruffled his hair.

Sherlock pushed the door handle down and the cool night air touched his face. With one step he left the world of aliens, pirates and time travel behind and entered his old life.

“See you next year!” the Doctor called after him while waving his hand and Sherlock took one last look at him, while closing the TARDIS door. This would be a very long year.


	3. A Christmas miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock

The church bells were ringing and families were peacefully making their way home. Wrapped up in scarves and gloves, mothers and fathers and boys and girls were looking forward to the next days. It was the time of year to dread family visits, to relish good food without worrying and to sleep without setting an alarm. For children of course, it was the time to impatiently wait until Father Christmas arrived to let them find out whether they'd been naughty or nice.

The Holmes's children were different of course. None of them believed in Father Christmas any more. Mycroft, because he was too old, and Sherlock also because his brother was too old. Mycroft had made sure that his little brother only lived 5 years with the joy of believing in Father Christmas. Mrs Holmes had been furious with her oldest after Sherlock had run into her arms asking if his brother was right. Trying to convince him he's not and that he was just messing with him she and their dad had still always acted as if Father Christmas was the one giving the presents. Sherlock had played along, a fact that Mycroft thought ridiculous. But he hadn't dared to say anything after receiving a murderous glance from their mother.

Sherlock was excited for Christmas nevertheless. He had wished for a dog. Something he'd been wishing for since kindergarten. He never got it, but this year impossible things have happened and why shouldn't the end of it bear impossibilities as well?

By the time they got home it was dark already. The only light Sherlock could see was the lights of the Christmas tree inside their living room, illuminating the darkness outside. They had put up the tree this very day. A bit later than usual and Sherlock had taken hours with his father to decide on which baubles and lights to put on the tree. Mycroft, as always, had seemed to be way more interested in what their mother would be cooking for Christmas dinner the next day.

Right now nearly everything was finished: Mince pies and Christmas pudding, cookies and lots of chocolates were waiting for them somewhere in the kitchen. Sherlock's and Mycroft's parents had never been particularly strict when it came to eating Christmas treats before the holiday arrived but of course, the greater part of it was supposed to be eaten on Christmas Day.

“Dinner will be ready at seven, boys. Mycroft, help me with the salad, please.” Mycroft looked irritated. Maybe because he was the one who had to help with the cooking instead of his little brother. Maybe, Sherlock thought, because the word “salad” fell in connection to dinner. “Why me, why not William?” he grumbled and his mother shot him a stern look. “Your brother has been helping all day with the tree. Come on, make yourself useful!” Sherlock grinned at his big brother and walked into the living room. The lights were dancing on the ceiling and a vintage music box on a shelf next to the telly was playing Christmas tunes.

Sherlock knelt down on the sofa, looking out of the window which was facing the garden. Everything in and outside their house was so picturesque, so full of Christmas spirit, except for the weather. He had never experienced a white Christmas like it was described in picture books or television. Their parents had once taken them on a holiday to the French Alps in January, where they had played all day long in the snow, but Sherlock had been to little to remember. Only a picture on a window sill and a few in some photo albums proved that holiday's existence.

“Are you waiting for Father Christmas?” his Dad snuck up on him, looking out of the window as well. “He won't come if you're looking outside and wait here for him.” Sherlock looked up to his father. “I know,” he said and before he got to open his mouth again his father interrupted him by saying, “don’t listen to anything your brother says. He may be older than you, but he is not in everything smarter than you.” He put his hand on Sherlock's head and then his shoulder, raising up from the sofa.

Dinner on Christmas Eve could never pass fast enough. Sherlock and Mycroft both gulped down the contents of their plates as fast as they could and half an hour later Sherlock was in his pyjamas, ready to go to bed. Lying in his bed, he still heard his parents watching telly from below and a part of him just wanted to run down and tell them to turn it off and go to sleep. Another part knew that it was completely irrelevant. Father Christmas didn't exist. A million eye rolls and snide remarks by Mycroft had confirmed this. Sherlock turned around in his bed, unable to get any rest. Without Father Christmas there was no chance Sherlock would get the dog he wanted. Hitting his pillow with his right fist, Sherlock sat up in his bed. He was not entirely sure, if or what he was thinking, but the next moment he was on his feet, opening his bedroom door and walking over to Mycroft's room.

To Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft had no clever remarks to offer when he opened the door after Sherlock had knocked, only the usual eye roll. “I can't sleep,” Sherlock said and took one step into his brother's room. It was something they had done as long as Sherlock could remember. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, a bad dream or a bully at school, Mycroft's bed was big enough to let Sherlock peacefully sleep in it.

“Mum and Dad are not getting me a dog, are they?” Sherlock whispered, once he was tucked under his brother's blanket.  
“Go to sleep, brother.” Mycroft sighed and turned away.  
“I know that Father Christmas isn't real, so it has to be Mum and Dad who get the presents. And they cannot get a living pet in the morning of Christmas Day. Everything is closed and there is no dog in the house right now.”

Mycroft didn't respond. Sherlock suspected he was pretending to be asleep.

“Mike!” he whispered again, louder. “What?” his brother seemed on edge.  
“What do you want for Christmas?” Mycroft's sighs became more dramatic.  
“For you to grow up and not get on my nerves any more. Good night.”

Sherlock let himself fall back into his pillow again. He knew when there was no point in bothering his brother any more and he had obviously reached it. Bored, he turned around and closed his eyes, wishing even harder for a miracle to occur.

Sherlock woke up, nearly hitting the floor. Mycroft had taken up all the space of the bed without realising, leaving his little brother to stand in the middle of the room. His feet went cold on the wooden floor and on any other day, Sherlock would've just walked back to his room. But not today.

“Mike, wake up, it's Christmas!” he shouted, while pulling the blanket off his brother.  
Mycroft woke up immediately. Before he could think of anything mean to say, Sherlock had already opened the door and walked outside and down the stairs. The cold feet were forgotten when he entered the living room. To his right, the stockings hanging at the fireplace looked like they were nearly bursting, filled with sweets and little gifts and under the tree there were more presents, spread over the floor in wrapping of every colour. Sherlock knew that he should be grateful, but there was no barking, no fur to pet, no companion to play with.

“Merry Christmas!” Sherlock got out of his head, once he heard his brother’s voice talking and turned around. Their parents were awake. Mycroft was hugging his mum while Sherlock wished his father a merry Christmas.

“You can unwrap your presents after breakfast, okay?” their mother told both of them while also wishing her youngest son a merry Christmas and kissing him on his cheek.  
“I know what you wish for, every year, dear, but-” Mrs Holmes didn't get far with what she wanted to say to Sherlock, because the quietness of the morning was quickly disturbed by a ringing doorbell, and then- to Sherlock's surprise- a bark. He got out of his mother's arms and ran to the door, opening it in a hurry.

Reddish brown fur greeted him while jumping up and licking his face. Sherlock, who could've jumped up and down with joy in this instant, tried to hold the dog down to take in everything. It was an Irish Setter, a few years old already, but that didn't matter. Instead of a collar, it was wearing a blue ribbon with a tag attached.

“My name is Redbeard.”

Sherlock's hand were shaking slightly and he forgot to breathe for a second. The ribbon's blue was no ordinary blue. It was a blue, Sherlock had seen before and he didn't need the screeching sound of the TARDIS'S brakes in the distance to confirm that this was a gift from the Doctor. He turned around, still having his right hand on the dog's ribbon and looked into his family's surprised faces.

“Please,” he pleaded, “Please, let me keep him. I will look after him, I will walk him and feed him and train him...” Sherlock looked at his parents, begging. There was a short exchange of looks between his mum and dad before his father began to speak. “But where will we get dog food on Christmas Day?” Sherlock grinned and buried his smiling face in Redbeard's fur. Father Christmas might not be real, but who needed him if one had a Doctor?


	4. SUMMER of 1989

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor takes Sherlock to a toy store where toys come to live at night. But not only toys. Through a crack in time and space something more dangerous has made it's way into their universe, as well. Daleks. 
> 
> Thankfully there are actual action heroes coming to live as well, ready to help them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock or the Avengers. :)

Sharing was boring. This was the only thing the Holmes brothers seemed to agree on. Mycroft loved his books on the British Empire. They were as big as his head. And Sherlock loved using them as a weight to press leaves and flowers and an occasional insect, that he could later examine under his microscope. He'd gotten a chemistry set for his 8th birthday and as furious as his brother was about this, Sherlock saw no other choice than to lock himself inside his room. What was the point of this book anyway? Sherlock had memorised its contents by just reading it once. Surely, his brother must've done the same years ago. Reading, of course, was interesting. Experimenting, on the other hand was fascinating. Keeping his eyes locked on the dead fly below the lens, his thoughts got violently sidetracked by the sound of pebbles being thrown at his window.

This couldn't be Mycroft.

Redbeard was the first to react. He jumped up and ran barking to the window, tongue hanging out and panting. Sherlock was there just a second after his dog, but the intruder had already found his way in. Skinny legs and arms, clad in a ridiculous, old fashioned outfit no man looking this age would wear, climbed into Sherlock's bedroom window.

“Hello again!” he started when he finally stood on both his feet, but he was quickly interrupted by the giant Irish Setter that leaped up and stared to lick his face.  
“Doctor!” Sherlock said, beaming, “what are you doing here?”

The Doctor freed himself from Redbeard, who still very much tried to get the time lords attention. “I am here to take you on another adventure! That's what we said last year, right?” he clapped his hands together and looked at Sherlock expectantly.  
“Yes,” Sherlock said and added quickly, “I didn't expect you to come in daylight. Doesn't your box attract attention?”  
“Oh boxes appear, boxes disappear. Humans never realise, they're practically blind. No offence.”  
“Thank you.” Sherlock said and looked at the Doctor earnestly, before taking clothes out of his wardrobe to put in the bag he had hidden under his bed for exactly these occasions.  
“Thank you for what?” the Doctor silently asked.  
“For Redbeard,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
“Oh you're welcome! I thought you needed a companion like this. Perfect height, perfect name, keeps your pirate adventures alive, doesn't bite.” With this he held his hand to the dog which unexpectedly growled, making the Doctor pull it away immediately. Sherlock smiled.  
“I hope you had some adventures. Not that it has been all for nothing. What have you been doing all summer?” the time lord asked and sat himself down on the boy's bed.  
“Er, playing outside.. a bit. Experimenting with my chemistry set,” he pointed at his desk, which was a mess out of books, unused and read, text books and of course, Mycroft's books. With the word “chemistry set” said, the Doctor rose up and crossed the distance to Sherlock's desk in one step.  
“Oh, beautiful, beautiful. There are always such interesting things in children's bedrooms. Toys and games and imaginary friends, but of course this-” the Doctor stopped mid sentence, looking as if he had lost something in Sherlock's room that he just remembered to look for.  
“You have no toys here.” Sherlock, who just finished packing his bag looked startled at the Doctor. “No.. why?”  
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, where are your toys?” Sherlock tensed as the Doctor used his full name.  
“They're all up in the attic. I don't need them any more.”  
“Don't need them? Why should you need them? You should want them!” Sherlock never had to defend himself about this and found it genuinely silly.  
“Toys are for kids,” he said, only to earn himself a scolding look from the Doctor.  
“You are a kid. Is this something your bad, bad brother has inflicted on you? We're going to a toy shop, right now.”  
“Ugh, boring,” Sherlock said but he knew that he couldn't fight the Doctor's excitement. Hopefully they would go somewhere else as well.  
“You have to climb out of the window again.” he said, as he went to the door, “Mycroft can't see you, he will remember you.”  
“Got it, window, meet you in five,” the Doctor pointed with both fingers from the window and then to Sherlock, before making his way down again.

Redbeard followed Sherlock up to the TARDIS and Sherlock only hesitatingly let go of his best friend, putting a treat on the ground and telling him to wait until he was right at the TARDIS’s doors. He stepped inside, taking one last look at him before closing the doors to this reality and entering a different one.

The TARDIS still looked the same and Sherlock caught himself being just as amazed as the fist time he saw it. The orange yellowish light, the round things all over the walls, it was a world on its own and it was, at least for Sherlock, his own. His secret.

“You're not really taking me to a toy shop, are you?” he curiously asked the Doctor.  
“Of course I am,” the man said and ran around the console, pressing buttons and checking diagrams on the screens in front of him.  
“But not any toy shop. Custom-build model. Helped a friend with the idea. Great great grandfather of the previous owner. He wanted a business that runs itself and I suggested a toy shop that makes toys come to life at night. I hope the person who runs it today remembers me.”

The Doctor sounded not so sure, although Sherlock could not imagine how anyone could actually forget the man.  
“Okay, that doesn't sound as boring as I thought it would.” Sherlock had to admit and smiled at the Doctor, holding on to the console as they made their leap into time and space.

The TARDIS landed while making its typical sound and Sherlock opened the door. Sunshine blinded him and when he opened his eyes, he saw for the very first time an alien city in front of him. The first difference he could make out was the shape of its buildings. Bulbous structures garnished the landscape before is eyes. They had a similarity to Arabian palaces he had seen on pictures but more modern, more alien. The city was buzzing, it was rush hour apparently and Sherlock nearly got run over by a bike or something very similar to it.

“Careful!” the Doctor reminded him as he closed the TARDIS'S doors behind him.  
“New world, new dangers! How do you like it?” he grinned at Sherlock.

Sherlock was too busy taking everything in. The people here looked the same as on earth. The accents he heard sounded English, but as the Doctor had explained to him last time, this was one of the perks when you travelled in the TARDIS. The air was different, it smelled disinfected, as if someone wanted to get rid of a really bad smell, or more likely, smog. The clothing looked old fashioned, probably, because society believed it to be in style in this particular century on exactly this planet. Sherlock didn't answer to the Doctor, but his face said it all: it was brilliant.

“There's our toy shop” the Doctor pointed to their left, only a few yards away. The building was old but renovated, so much Sherlock could make out by its looks. The walls outside were painted red and in golden letters “Mr Hulbert's wondrous Toy World” was written over the the two curved glass doors that marked the entrance.

“I thought you said the shop came to life at night?” Sherlock asked as they made their way through the nearly empty shop. “Why are we here at day time?". He couldn't see anything. It was so full of people that he nearly regretted ever stepping inside. The only thing keeping him there was the blind faith in the Doctor and his weird ideas.  
“Ah, hello,” the Doctor started talking to a man behind the till, “we want a ticket each, I am the Doctor, this is Sherl-”  
“William,” Sherlock corrected him  
“William Holmes. We're here for your night special.” Sherlock could not overhear the strangeness in the Doctor's voice when he said his name. Whatever obsession the time lord had with his middle name, it was upsetting. Not because Sherlock didn't like it, but because there was absolutely no explanation why the Doctor would insist on calling him by it.

The grey bearded man behind the till looked quite grumpy as he pointed up to a blinking sign behind him. “The night special is cancelled. Have you not heard the news?” he seemed so upset about it, that people started staring into the direction of the high pitched voice answering.  
“Oh well we came a long way. Haven't heard about anything. Is there any way that- “ Sherlock knew that the Doctor would not give in so easily, but the man was not one to argue with.  
“You are not going in there at night. No one is. Not after what happened. I nearly lost my job, the shop... Next one!”  
A woman with two children behind them shoved them to the side as she put two Barbie dolls on the counter.  
“Listen to him,” a rosy cheeked, fat lady behind Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder.  
“Going in there at night is a risk. Three people were wounded, it's nothing to joke about.”  
“We won't, sorry,” Sherlock assured her while keeping his eyes on the Doctor.

The time spent in the TARDIS while waiting for the night to come seemed to stretch into infinity. Sherlock started to miss Redbeard and tried to waste time by re-plugging the cables right under the console, only to be told off by the Doctor who soon decided that it was not such a bad idea and soon they were both lying under it trying out new combinations.

“What's the plan?” Sherlock asked the Doctor when even this experiment started to bore him.  
“You heard the lady in the shop. Three wounded and an angry shop owner.” The Doctor turned his head towards Sherlock while speaking.  
“So?” Sherlock teased. He knew what effect it had on the Doctor who was, admittedly, more adventurous than him.  
“So?” the time lord replied eyeing his little friend intently.  
“You have a screwdriver that opens every door and it hasn't even turned midnight yet.” Sherlock kept nagging.  
“Not entirely, it doesn't open wood!” the Doctor said and Sherlock rolled his eyes as the man beside him stood up, pulling Sherlock with him to the TARDIS's doors.  
“Be quiet, don't hurt yourself and don't wander off!” the Doctor smiled at Sherlock as he opened the door.

The shop was far better at night without any people in it. As soon as they got in, Sherlock and the Doctor were greeted by a massive wooden merry-go-round. It seemed to take up most of the space in the shop, but oh, how wrong they were. To its left, toy trains on their tracks covered the floor and also several levels of shelves. Toy cars of every shape and size were packed onto another shelve facing the opposite wall which was covered by stuffed animals, unicorns and other figures that Sherlock couldn't identify. Probably, because they were species from this planet, that he hasn't explored yet. Other tiny animal figures were stacked to its right and left and in the centre behind the merry-go-round, Sherlock could spot life sized action figures posing mid-attack.

“I cannot believe all of this is gonna come to life once it's midnight.” Sherlock said astonished while the Doctor scanned most of the pieces with his screwdriver.  
“Yes, amazing,” he said, his mind somewhere else, “and probably dangerous.” His eyes fell on the merry-go-round in the middle.  
“We should get a good spot to see the show begin.”

“Is this what we do now? Stay up here and let all the fun happen down there?” Sherlock asked sulkingly.  
They had climbed up the merry-go-round and were sitting on its top. From there they had a marvellous view on all the playthings, but Sherlock had still expected more of this adventure.  
“Since people got hurt, yes, that is exactly my idea,” the Doctor answered, carefully watching the hall as far as he could see. There was only one minute left until midnight and Sherlock started to doubt this night was going to be any good.  
“But what if it was their fault?” he whined, “could you make anything out? With your screwdriver?”  
“No I couldn’t”  
“Then let's go back down.” Just when the Doctor wanted to make the next objection, all lights went on.

For a second, Sherlock thought they were in great trouble. But then, music started to play and the merry-go-round below them moved. It was the kind of music you could hear an ice cream truck play, the kind of music that was now also used to scare kids in horror films. But nothing happened, no monsters and no clowns appeared. Instead, the whole room came to live. After the merry-go-round, the toy trains started moving. The stuffed animals stirred and so did the miniature figures on all the shelves.

“Doctor, please, let's go down.” Sherlock begged and for a second, he thought the time lord was going to agree with him. For a second he thought everything was fine. Then, a sound pierced through the playful tune and the time lord's face went white. “EXTERMINATE. EXTERMINATE”

Sherlock felt his hand grabbed by the Doctor. He couldn't make out where the time lord was dragging him to, but in a second they were down on the floor, missing a ray of light only inches above their faces. Sherlock was now sure, that this was not an innocent toy, functioning the way it was supposed to.

This was serious and the the Doctor's face said it all. He was scared to death.

So this was what the woman in the store tried to warn them about, without even knowing what it was. A metal figure, bigger than Sherlock, with a mechanical eyestalk placed on its rotating head, cut its way through the living toy shop.

“Doctor, what are they?” Sherlock asked, panting, while he ran after the man.  
“They're Daleks-” but the Doctor didn't get far with his explanation, because in this moment the Dalek aimed at them again.  
“Duck!” the Doctor shouted but there was another voice, speaking the same word from a few feet behind them and as Sherlock looked up behind the wooden horse he was hiding behind, a circular object came flying right into the Dalek's metal frame, destroying the hand mixer shaped death ray and plunger next do it.

The time lord’s face next to him was priceless and Sherlock was thinking that he had probably never seen one of these creatures destroyed that easily.

“You shouldn't be here. It is not safe” a man wearing a blue, white and red American uniform with a white star on the centre of his chest came up to them and Sherlock saw the Doctor's jaw dropping. The life sized action figures had of course come to life, too, and Sherlock could identify the Hulk growling on the opposite side of the room. He hadn't read any comic books but he knew enough and had seen some of his class mates read them to know that the man standing in front of him was Captain America.

“Brilliant, hah!” the Doctor raised his hands in disbelief.  
“Always wanted to meet you, you are amazing! And you brought your friends.” Sherlock's eyes fell on the other Avengers in the room.  
“Doctor, there are still the Daleks!” the time lord seemed to have forgotten the imminent threat and turned his head away from the Captain, just to see two other Daleks come their way.  
“Run,” he said and Sherlock did. They ran through the room, jumping over moving cars and playthings, letting Captain America deal with the mechanical creatures behind them. The Daleks were still there, not yet defeated, since Sherlock had to dodge a laser beam coming out of Iron Man's hand in front of him. He threw himself on the ground, landing closely to the Hulk's big green feet, only to be picked up by a metal arm that belonged to a man with long dark hair.

“You're safe here. Stay in our midst,” a short woman with red hair told Sherlock before grabbing also the Doctor's arm and pulling him inside the circle where they were standing. Sherlock had never felt in great danger when he was with the Doctor. He had that much faith in him. But standing here, surrounded by a group of superheroes on a battlefield of moving toys was a new level of safe. “There were never more than five or six of them coming at night,” Captain America said, closing the circle. “Nice one, Cap, but in case you haven't counted, we've already killed five of them and the night is still young,” Iron Man sarcastically remarked. “The number is increasing,” the man with the metal arm said and looked worrying at Captain America.

They had decided to walk Sherlock and the Doctor to the back entrance, after no Daleks had appeared after half an hour of waiting. The woman called Natasha, as Captain America had called her, escorted them together with a man called Bucky. “Mr Hulbert's wondrous Toy World” was much bigger than what Sherlock had expected it to be. They were now entering a curved corridor furnished with shelves that had vintage porcelain dolls sitting on them. Sherlock was certain they were all looking at them, turning their eerie heads and hollow eyes as they walked past them.

“You're superheroes,” Sherlock said, amazed. The Doctor started laughing. “Last year, he wanted to be a pirate and this year it's a superhero. Your career aspirations change like the wind.” Sherlock frowned at him. “That's not bad actually, keeps your mind busy,” he added when he saw that the previous comment had bothered him.

“What's your job?” Sherlock asked the Doctor, who quickly replied with “Time lord,” while taking a fez from a shelf, placing it on his head.  
“What does a time lord do?” Sherlock asked and the Doctor looked around, contemplating.  
“No idea. My parents told me I could be anything I wanted, so I stole a TARDIS and ran away.” He stopped for a second, thinking about what he had just said.  
“Not sure if they're so proud about the stealing part, though.”  
“My parents are telling me the same, but everything they do or anyone else does seems so boring,” Sherlock complained.  
“Then invent your own job!” the Doctor said and put the fez on Sherlock's head.

Of course it was not a good idea to walk behind the Doctor on a mission that was already doomed to be deadly. But there was something about the Lego section that caught Sherlock's eyes and it weren't the structures of fantastical worlds made out of stones of every shape and colour, it was the empty sarcophagus build of Lego pieces. He was ready to get going, catch up with the Doctor when he heard the dreaded sound again: “EXTERMINATE.”

There was no time to think. Sherlock ran inside the small room to his right and stepped inside the sarcophagus. After all he had experienced tonight, everything was better than to be grilled by the human sized pepper shakers that inhabited this place. He pulled the lid over him, just so he was able to see outside, and soon two Daleks passed his place of hiding. Sherlock didn't dare to breathe. The Daleks were somewhere behind him but he couldn't make out where. He had seen an opening behind the wall when he ran to hide in the Lego sarcophagus, but had no idea where it was. The decision whether to step out again or not, was quickly taken from him, when the inhabitant of the sarcophagus tore its lid away. A mummy all made out of little Lego pieces was facing him and Sherlock, as curious as he was, picked a stone off its body, examining it in his hands. It was a bad idea and the mummy reached furiously with its hand into the direction of Sherlock's face, making the boy step outside the sarcophagus at once, running away to where he hoped the Doctor would be.

Sherlock expected the Doctor to greet him with the typical “I told you, don't wander off,” but there was no time for that. The time lord was running in Sherlock's direction as fast as Sherlock was running into his. When Sherlock saw what the Doctor was running from, he turned around immediately and headed back. Death by murderous Lego mummy sounded better than extermination by Daleks and there were three of them coming their way.

Bucky was the only one of them strong enough to withstand the death rays coming out of their in-build weapons and so Natasha lead the way, ready to fight of any other murderous object that was coming their way.

“Doctor, to the left,” Sherlock shouted as the got to the room he'd just been in “WHY?” the time lord shouted.

“Just do it!”

Captain America and Iron Man were coming their way again. Going left meant there would be more Daleks. But he had to find out where they went a few minutes ago.

“We heard their sound coming from here,” Captain America said while observing the hallway behind them.  
“How many were there?”  
“Five,” the Doctor said, while Sherlock said: “More.

They all looked at him. “They went in here,” he said, while walking to the end of the room. The mummy was now standing still in its sarcophagus.  
“It moved,” Sherlock said, frowning and looking to the others.  
“Just a few minutes ago. It attacked me.”  
“This whole building is returning to its hibernating phase,” Iron Man said, making his way to the entry Sherlock had just shown them.  
“We should get to the bottom of this, before we can't move any more.”

No one argued with him on that. Captain America went down the hall with Bucky to fight the Daleks left in the toy store and Sherlock, together with the Doctor and the rest of the Avengers, entered the room behind the sarcophagus.

The scene behind the wall was maddening. At first, Sherlock thought it to be a storage room. But it was too noisy and there were laser beams flying in every direction, appearing mid air and vanishing just a few seconds later again, mid air. He could see Daleks, but it seemed they could not see them. They were faint, as if fog was preventing Sherlock to see the scene before them, and fading every now and then just to re-appear in a different spot.

“Something's not right,” the Doctor said quietly, “they aren't here, but somehow they are. They're coming through.” Iron Man shot a few times in their direction, but nothing happened and Natasha gave him a judging look.  
“We should go,” she said, “otherwise we won't be able to move any more.” The Doctor nodded in their direction and then turned to Sherlock. “We're coming back at daytime.”

The bonus of staying in an actual city for a few days, opposed to a holiday on a pirate ship, was that Sherlock and the Doctor had the luxury of going wherever they wanted. When Sherlock spotted the high-tech diner that robots served dishes in, there was no way he was gonna miss out on that, no matter how high the Doctor praised the TARDIS's self creating food machine and automatically re-filling fridge. It was only a block of houses away from the toy shop and both of them kept nervously staring at it from the window next to their booth while waiting for breakfast to be served.

“What are Daleks, Doctor?” Sherlock had asked his friend the minute they got out of the toy shop at night. He could see that the time lord was reluctant to answer. He had only gotten an insufficient answer.  
“My arch enemies.” “My peoples' arch enemies.”

But he hadn't wanted to go deeper.

So the Doctor had himself to blame, when he found Sherlock that morning lying on the floor in the TARDIS's library, asleep, next to a shelf full of bottled Gallifreyan knowledge and a stack of books about the time war. He wasn't exactly happy about it, but he had never forbidden Sherlock to go there and the boy's curiosity was limitless. There was a question, though, burning on Sherlock's tongue to ask, but he didn't dare to. He had seen a name in “The History of the Time War”. A name that could only belong to one person. A person that insisted on using the title “Doctor” instead.

“When are we going in?” Sherlock asked while unenthusiastically chewing on something that looked, but didn't taste, like pancakes.  
“We need the place to fill up a little. Otherwise we'd be attracting too much attention.” Fifteen minutes later they were standing in front of the shop's entrance.  
“I'll scan everything with my sonic screwdriver, you-” the Doctor steered Sherlock through the crowd by pushing his shoulders. “-see if you can find anything unusual.”  
“More unusual than living comic action heroes coming to life?” Sherlock joked and the Doctor pushed him in the direction of the corridor they had explored the day before.  
“Way more unusual! Scream, when there's danger or ring a bell or whatever there might be,” he said and with that they parted ways.

The only place Sherlock thought to be worthy to look into was the storage room. The way there was much less creepy than it had been the previous night. No dolls were turning their heads, not Lego mummies attacked kids, but of course the room was filled with employees, getting toys that were sold out quickly, filling up shelves and re-arranging their supplies.

Sherlock tried to sneak in there, but there was no chance. The door opened and closed to quickly and a child would attract attention without any doubt. But Sherlock didn't even have to get far to notice the unusual. The temperature in the room just didn't stay the same. He didn't understand how none of the other kids and even none of the adults could notice it. It was obvious and it had nothing to do with bad air conditioning. One step to the right, it was ice cold. One step ahead, warm again. Step to the left, warm, step diagonally to the left, ice cold. Doing this funny dance to analyse the temperature changes, he barely missed that someone had forgotten to close the door to the storage room. Looking around to see whether people were looking in his direction, he sneaked inside.

He was lucky, because it seemed like the workers had a meeting on far side of the storage room, so Sherlock hid behind a shelf, looking for a safe area to explore the room. Walking around, he tried to wrap his head around the fact that last night exactly this place was close to a doomsday scenario. The cold spots were still there and Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned around and found himself in a completely different place. The shelves of the storage room were gone and there were Daleks everywhere. They didn't move and Sherlock didn't dare to even exhale. One Dalek was moving, not noticing the boy who just appeared a few feet away from him, going back and forth at a wall with no way out. It was the never ending wall that was completely misplaced in the room. The one Sherlock had seen was open, there were windows and doors, but this one was fully isolated.

After a minute of keeping the air in his lungs, Sherlock exhaled slowly and when the moving Dalek still didn't acknowledge him, he started to take a step. Moving just an inch ahead, transported him back to his actual place. It was maddening. Sherlock tried to convince himself that he was not delirious by taking a step back and for a millisecond he saw the room again. He moved once more, like he did outside: to the left, to the right, one step back and again to the left. And every other moment the saw snippets of this other world in front of his eyes.

There was a noise next to him and Sherlock jumped before he saw that it was the Doctor, who accidentally threw over a box of toy soldiers. Both of them faced each other, pressing their finger against their lips to signify the other one to be quiet. The employee meeting had stopped for a second but after a moment of silence their discussion continued. Sherlock took the Doctor's hand and pulled him toward himself. Only so much, that the Doctor stood exactly where Sherlock was standing a few minutes ago. The time lord's eyes went wide and Sherlock knew that he was seeing the Daleks in the other place. Instantly, he raised his sonic screwdriver and scanned the air around them. It seemed as if he could sense the holes in this world that lead into the other. Sherlock looked around carefully. It looked as if the meeting was finished and he quickly grabbed the Doctor's sleeve, dragging him out of the room.

“I found several signals,” the Doctor told him, while they made their way back to main hall.  
“They're confusing and non compliant, it's like I'm receiving signals from everywhere. Here and not here. Double trouble, makes my screwdriver go all woohoo.”

Sherlock knew better than to disrupt his friend during his crazy talk.

“What does it mean?” he asked, once the Doctor calmed down.  
“I have two ideas, or three,” he added while looking through the crowded room.  
“None of them are good.” He walked to a news stand, grabbed the shop's newsletter and unfolded it.

The paper was thin, so it took no effort to poke holes in it with his finger. He held it up between him and Sherlock and looked at the boy through one of the holes.

“Most likely scenario,” he started to explain, “this is our dimension,” he pointed at himself, “yours is the Dalek dimension. Usually they are non accessible from one to the other. But this wall got thinner and thinner and now it's leaking. Your reality is leaking into mine, but for some reason it's only happening at night.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to ask his billion questions, but the Doctor didn't let him.

“Coincidence? Maybe! The universe does things like these for fun!” “How can a dimensional wall get thinner?” Sherlock asked, confused by the Doctor's explanation.  
“No idea,” the Doctor shrugged, “but the universe works in mysterious ways.”  
“So, what are the Daleks looking for in our dimension?” Sherlock continued, trying to make sense.  
“Go on a killing spree, have some fun. Dalek extra curricular activities…”  
“Have they already killed everyone in their universe?” Sherlock asked and the Doctor tilted his head, pondering what his friend had just said.  
“Doctor, there were no windows and no doors in this room. They were caged in.” The Doctor stared at Sherlock as he continued.  
“Maybe they're trying to escape.” The time lord's right hand twitched and his fine eyebrows were pulled together in a concentrated manner. Without saying another word, he walked over to the till.  
“I need to speak to the manager,” he confronted the girl behind the counter. She was chewing gum, half-heartedly and re-organising gift cards at the front of the counter.  
“Sure,” she said and disappeared into the staff room behind her.

Two minutes later, the grey bearded, bald shop manager that they had encountered the first day, came outside.

“I remember you,” he remarked, disgruntled. “What do you want this time.”  
“We need to warn you,” the Doctor said and the man behind the counter pulled up an eyebrow.  
“The space in your storage room is being used as a portal to another dimension. That is where the beings that hurt your visitors, came through.”

The manager was furious.

“You came here the first day and demanded entry, we denied it and now you are warning me?” he laughed and took a step away from them. The Doctor didn't give in. He walked around the counter and grabbed the man by his arm.  
“This is serious. You need to evacuate the building. We're all in danger,” the Doctor said, in a low voice, careful not to attract too much attention.  
“I nearly lost my job,” the man said, his voice firm, ”this is all I have. The money I earn to support my family – I get it from this.” He pointed to the main hall.  
“There's no way, you can force me to close this shop.” The Doctor finally let go of his arm.  
“People are gonna die,” he said, “you are endangering the lives of a whole city.”  
“Don't exaggerate. As long as no one enters the building at night, we're all safe,” the manager said, but Sherlock could see that his whole body tensed and was sure that he had his doubts.  
“You're not,” the Doctor said, stepping away.  
“We would appreciate it, if you'd not bother us again in here,” the manager furrowed his brows and looked away darkly.

Helplessness is an ugly feeling. Sherlock felt it and he saw the Doctor feel it even more. For Sherlock it was more frustration. The realisation, that no matter what clever proof they could give, no one listened or wanted to listen, just because of the money they were making out of a dimensionally unstable area. The Doctor cared about those people, and he was afraid of the Daleks.

It was something new, to see the Doctor be afraid of something. Really afraid. It was no option for him to just walk away now, that they knew mayhem would break out soon and people would die. And Sherlock didn't dare to suggest otherwise, feeling a little bit of shame, because deep down he knew he had considered running away. They had gone to the city's council, right after leaving the shop. But they hadn't wanted to act on it either. Now, back inside the TARDIS, the Doctors right hand was hovering over its levers, as if he hoped his ship would give him a direction, an idea where to go and ask for help.

Suddenly, the Doctor's hand hit two buttons that made his ship scream and shake and Sherlock, who's been sitting on the stairs, fell down soundly.

“Ouch! Where are we going?” he asked and stood up. The Doctor was still pushing several buttons, looking determined and just said “Shadow Proclamation,” holding on to a handle, as the TARDIS made an interesting turn in the time vortex, sending Sherlock to the very bottom of the stairs.  
“It's the Police for all intergalactic matters and if someone can help us, it's them.” He opened up the door and Sherlock could make out seven or eight alien beings that looked like rhinos, pointing their guns at them. Glad, that he was not the one in front, but the Doctor, he looked at his friend unsure.

“Hello!” the Doctor started to speak, with his over friendly nature, “you've met me before. Different face, of course. But the same hearts.” Had Sherlock not fallen asleep reading the complete Encyclopedia of Gallifrey, he would've thought the Doctor crazy by this talk. Different face and same hearts. But now he knew better. He had not only found out about the time war, but also about the regeneration cycle and anatomy of a time lord, that their bodies changed once they died or were deadly wounded and that they had two hearts in their chests.

The rhino-like soldiers turned to the side and let the Doctor pass, who gestured Sherlock to come along. To his right, Sherlock saw windows and at first, he thought it to be dark outside. Maybe, in this time zone, it was night time. But it wasn't. It was dark, but not because it was night time. It was dark because outside there was space. He could see tiny stars, far, far away, twinkling.

Constellations, he had never seen and meteors just as much as asteroids, flying about. He wished he had time to react to all of this, but the Doctor suddenly stopped and Sherlock nearly ran into him. There was a woman standing at the end of the hall in front of them. She was tall and very white, wearing her white blond curly hair up and covered in a black hair net. The paleness of her skin was intensified by the very black dress and necklace she was wearing. She looked like an authority figure. Scary and compelling. But the most compelling thing about her were her eyes. They were blood red.

“Now, Doctor, this is a surprise. Long time no see.” The Doctor nodded.  
“You do like these young regenerations, don't you? It's been a while since someone has seen you here wearing a more... mature body.”

Sherlock realised suddenly, that he had not given any thought on how many times the Doctor could have regenerated. Was he at the beginning of his life? Or had he already lived 300 or 400 years? The enormity of this made him feel small and he took a deep breath.

“It's a lottery,” the Doctor shrugged and began to shake both arms and legs.  
“I can obviously move better and faster with these.” The woman smiled.  
“What is your concern? What are you here for?”

They sat down in a octagonal room and the Doctor pulled out his screwdriver, placing it head down in a mechanical device in the centre of a small table. The room was suddenly filled with a green light and Sherlock could see the scenes from the storage room again, playing out before his eyes: Daleks moving around, Daleks trying to shoot their way out, bombarding the walls, blasting holes in a never ending barrier. A wall so thick they cannot escape. “So it's like we said,” Sherlock said, “the Daleks cannot get out of wherever they are.” The Doctor was comparing the data of the screwdriver to the Shadow Proclamation's files on the computer. Then, he stood up and started walking around, examining the Daleks up close. “This place is several miles below sea level. In the Daleks’ world at least.” The time lord had his hand up in his hair, tearing it in different directions. “But how did they get down there?” “Well it is obvious, isn't it?” the pale woman answered, “they have been put there.”

The Doctor looked from the woman to Sherlock.

“I've been thinking the same.” Sherlock smiled and raised his hands in an apologising motion. “Ugh, your brains are getting along, aren't they?” the Doctor said with faked disgust. “So, someone put Daleks under the earth. Living Daleks, living killing machines in a place where they could only go mad. Madder than they already are. All this energy, all this fury, it can tear apart dimensions. And it did,” he explained. “And now they're making their way to this world,” he looked at Sherlock while he said it. “They're gonna kill everyone.”

The Doctor glanced down and when his eyes met Sherlock's again, Sherlock knew that these eyes didn't belong to a young regeneration. They had seen desperation and evil far too many times and for a very strange reason it gave Sherlock hope. If the Doctor had faced a problem like this before and had gotten out of it alive, they could solve it again.

“Can you help us?” Sherlock directed the question at the woman in black. She raised her eyebrows. He thought it to be a perfectly ordinary question. After all, they had come here for a reason. The woman took in a sharp breath.  
“Well, we are interested in the well-being of this universe. But how exactly do you expect us to help?” The Doctor, who had crossed over his legs in the beginning, now put both feet on the ground and folded his hands together.  
“We cannot fight the Daleks alone. We don't have the weapons needed for this case.” The woman raised one eyebrow.  
“I never thought I'd see the day come, when the Doctor asks for a weapon.” The Doctor looked sinister.  
“Don't be ridiculous, we cannot fight every single Dalek in there and we certainly cannot kill them all.” He did give Sherlock a worried look, similar to the one of a parent, to see how the talk about death affected the eight year old boy. Sherlock was calm. He had never seen death as something that was part of his life. People died, it was no news. One day he would be gone and so would his brother and his parents. It was not a strange concept but the cautiousness that the Doctor treated the topic with, was troubling.

“We can help you with that. But you have to look for a way to close the holes in the dimensional wall. It must never break again,” she said sternly and the Doctor stood up rapidly. “Ah, no problem, that we can take care of,” he said as he fetched his screwdriver from the centre of the table, “we just need someone to take care of the Daleks on their killing spree.”

The pale woman raised herself up, staring at them in disbelief. “How are you gonna do that?” she asked. “Spacy wacy,” the Doctor just said and adjusted his bow tie. “Thank you for your help,” he said to the woman while nodding into the TARDIS's direction to tell Sherlock to come. “We'll meet downstairs.”

“HOLD ON TIGHT!” the Doctor yelled, as the the TARDIS's brakes let go and sent the ship flying into the time vortex.  
“Where are we going?” Sherlock shouted back as his fingers closed around a handle on the console. “Hyperspace,” the Doctor said as if it was the most casual thing to do. He found his way back to the ground after the TARDIS made an explicitly sharp turn and grabbed the screen with both hands, laughing with joy. The TARDIS came to rest after a few more minutes of wild turns and the Doctor started to grin madly at Sherlock.

“What's hyperspace?” Sherlock asked and the Doctor who simply answered by opening the TARDIS's doors. Outside there was a very blue light. Thick like fog, but instead of blocking out the light, it seemed, as if every single particle was shining. Sherlock didn't realise his jaw hanging open as he walked to the door. He just needed to be closer to the light. It wasn't just light, it was a feeling of immense power and it was just there in front of him, a grip of this hand away.

“What is this?” he asked the Doctor. The question came out like a whisper.  
“Dimensional energy,” the time lord explained, while holding out a vial into the blue sea of particles.  
“What happens if I touch it?” Sherlock curiously grabbed into the mist.  
The Doctor shrugged, “nothing. At least- as long as you're in here. As long as you're in the TARDIS, nothing can ever happen to you.”  
“And once I step outside? It's not like space, is it?”  
“It is the opposite of space,” the Doctor withdrew his vial from the blue fog. It was full. He put the fitting cork on it and walked back to the console with it.  
“You cannot exist out there,” and with a snap of his fingers he closed the doors, “you will never have existed. It is not a nice way to leave this world and before you ask, it is not dying. There is a difference.” Sherlock tried to wrap his head around it. This was the first time he thought something to be truly complicated. He traced the inner door handle with his fingers, deciding on whether to look outside again or not, but the TARDIS had already left the wondrous place and returned to its original one. They were going back to face the Daleks.

The Shadow Proclamation seemed to have kept their promise and it was at the right time. When they landed, and this time the Doctor decided to park the TARDIS right in the middle of the storage room, hell had broken loose. Sherlock could hear shootings from the inside of the TARDIS, by standing really close to the doors, admittedly. And as he opened the door the Doctor slammed it shut with his foot in front of him. He had a ton of wires in his right hand and a generator or something very similar, that Sherlock could not identify, in his left. Between his left arm and body he held the vial filled up with blue mist.

“No, no, no, no, no!” he hastily said and Sherlock could hear the panic in his voice.  
“You'll stay in here, safe and sound and hold this for me,” he bowed down a little bit, so Sherlock could take the vial of dimensional energy out of his arms.  
“I need you to not leave the TARDIS until I tell you to.” Sherlock was not happy about it and everything on his face expressed his discontent.  
“Stay close to the door, I'll knock!”  
“What then? What are you gonna do?” Sherlock asked the Doctor as he got ready to go into battle.  
“I'm gonna close the walls between the dimensions and send the Daleks back to where they came from,” he raised his eyebrows and pressed his elbow down on the door handle.  
“Geronimo!”

Sherlock could only see outside the TARDIS for the few seconds the Doctor needed to go outside. It was mayhem. He could spot two of the armoured rhinos shooting wildly through the air, and of course, Daleks, loudly exclaiming their disdain for every race that was not their own by screaming the words “EXTERMINATE” and “YOU WILL DIE”.

He had sat down next to the door with the vial in front of him and waited. It was straining and Sherlock flinched every time he heard something close to the door. He had no idea how far the Doctor had come with the setup of the generator and minutes felt like hours.

Just when Sherlock thought something must have happened, since there had still been no knock at the door, the whole TARDIS shook and Sherlock let go of the vial. It slid over the floor, up to the centre of the control room, just a few feet away from the console.

The door flew open at this very instant and the Doctor's hand reached in, “Sherlock!” he shouted, and Sherlock could see the Doctor's distressed face looking through the open gap between the doors. He got on his feet and grabbed the vial from the floor, running back to the doors, but the Doctor was gone. Instead there was a Dalek's eyestalk right in front of him and death rays came shooting through the control room. Sherlock held the vial tight to his body, not letting go of it this time and threw himself to the floor.

As he got got to the doors, crawling, the Doctor was now where to be seen and Sherlock took a step out of the TARDIS, running towards the built up generator in the middle of the room, connected to sockets in the walls with wires. He ducked several times and when he got to the generator he looked around, finding the doctor running towards him a mad look on his face. He didn't say anything. Both were dodging the death rays and trying to survive.

The scene was exhausting, not just because of the death threat. Sherlock could see through two realities, Daleks in both and sometimes he didn't even know in which one he was. How could they make sure that they stayed in the right one, as they closed the wall? What if they were in the wrong one with the Daleks and the TARDIS stayed in a different one?

“Pour it into the the hole in the middle!” the Doctor yelled over the loud Daleks' screams and the shooting of the Shadow Proclamation's soldiers. Sherlock took out the cork and put the vial upside down over the opening on top of the generator.  
“Run back to the TARDIS, it'll only take a minute,” the Doctor shouted and Sherlock ran back. Before he could reach the doors a blue light illuminated the room. Both rooms in both dimensions. Lightning came down and for a second everyone, even the Daleks stood still.

Sherlock opened the door to the TARDIS and looked back to the Doctor. His friend dodged one of the blue lightning bolts coming from the ceiling as he ran towards Sherlock. A Dalek's death ray prevented, that he got to the TARDIS in time and as Sherlock decided to hold out his hand for his friend to grasp it, the blue light fully engulfed the air and with an explosion of light, the dimensions shut down. Sherlock ran out, trying to lead the Doctor back to his ship, but as the light turned itself off and it was clear, that it had indeed worked, he hit rock solid ground. There was no one there. The Doctor was gone.

Sherlock sat on the spot for a few minutes without realising that the soldiers were talking to him. He was taking one deep breath after another, not yet fully realising that the Doctor was very, very likely stuck in a different dimension. The few Daleks that were still in this reality had been shot by the Shadow Proclamation's soldiers, so there was no danger in sitting there a bit longer. Sherlock didn't understand, what the soldier's problems where.

“What?” he snapped at them, furrowing his brow.  
“Do you need a ride?” the soldier said and Sherlock could not detect any emotion in his face. Probably because it had no human structures at all and Sherlock didn't know which twitches meant what.  
Was it a happy face, or a sad face? He had no clue.  
“I am not coming with you,” he said determined. The rhino growled and looked back to his fellows. Sherlock didn't care. Whatever their orders were, a little boy could not be that high up on the list. They couldn't possibly care so much where he went. The rhino exhaled.  
“Do what you want.” Sherlock turned away from them and went back to the TARDIS. This couldn't be it. It just couldn’t.

Once he was in there, the full realisation of what had just happened crashed over him. He screamed out loud and hit the console with his fists, pressing every button he could find. “Bring him back!” he screamed and hit more and more buttons, pulled more levers and in the end, let himself fall down to the floor, pulling at his own hair.

He was alone in a space ship that he didn't know how to operate, on a planet he didn't even know the name of, in a galaxy far, far away, more light years away from earth than astronomers could observe with telescopes. There was a flicker of blue light in the air, just a few feet away from him. Sherlock looked up straight away, thinking, hoping, it would be the other dimension opening up again. Hoping, the Doctor found a way to find back to his TARDIS. But it wasn't. It was a hologram of a young woman.

“You enabled the TARDIS’s emergency protocol. When initial pilot is not at start, actions can be taken through-“  
“Take me to the Doctor,” Sherlock said, interrupting the hologram, his voice hoarse from all the screaming before.  
“Crossing dimensions is not advisable.” Sherlock heaved himself up using his right fist, which hurt unimaginably since he had hit the TARDIS's console buttons just a minute ago, but he didn't care.  
“I don't care. And he wouldn't, either. I need to get him out of there.”  
The hologram of the woman didn't let on what it thought of Sherlock's command. Of course not, he thought, it was a hologram.  
“Crossing of dimensions is now being initiated. Entering of the dimension containing the Doctor complete. Please note, that this ship is not made to stay in this reality longer than 2 minutes.”

Sherlock didn't even hear the last sentence. He ran to the doors and pulled them open, ready to grab the Doctor and drag him inside, but he didn't need to. The time lord was standing in front of the doors, panting and his eyes wide open in disbelief. His hair was messy and there were holes in this jacket and trousers.  
“Hahaa,” he exclaimed wildly as he ran inside the TARDIS, hugging Sherlock tightly.  
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you are incredible,” he shouted as he let go of him and ran up to the TARDIS's console.

A minute later, the ship let its wonderful sound fill the air, sending them home.

“For how long did you have to wait for me?” Sherlock asked, when the TARDIS was safely orbiting the earth.  
“Just a few seconds,” the Doctor answered.  
They were both sitting at the TARDIS's entrance, letting their feet dangle in the blackness of space with the blue planet below them.  
“Did the Daleks not hurt you? You were there completely on your own.” Sherlock was concerned and curious.  
“Nah, they were shooting all over the place, not knowing what was there. It was a similar shock to them, as it was for me,” the Doctor said with ease, but Sherlock was not believing a word he said. He'd seen the look in his eyes and there had been unbelievable despair and fear when Sherlock had opened the TARDIS's doors earlier on. He let it go. There were other things he was curious about.

“Who was the woman? The hologram?” he asked and could see his friend tense.  
“Who?” he asked, trying to make it look as if he didn't care. It was so obvious to Sherlock, it was nearly painful.  
“She called herself an emergency protocol, Doctor. That woman. She spoke to me. I told her to bring me to you.”  
“Ahh,” the Doctor said and grimaced. “She is- was- a friend.”  
“Did you lose her?” Sherlock asked cautiously.  
“On your travels?” It was straightforward and he knew that other people could have used it as a pressure point, to judge the Doctor about how dangerous his adventures really were, but Sherlock saw no point in not being direct with the Doctor. With a jolt, he realised how glad he was, that his parents didn't know about the Doctor and his adventures.

“She is not dead,” the Doctor said and Sherlock thought he had never seen the time lord more serious. “She is in a different time and I cannot get her back,” he paused. “But she is happy, I think. She is not alone.”  
“Why can you not get her back? You have a time machine!” Sherlock exclaimed with confusion. The Doctor closed his eyes painfully and then looked at Sherlock earnestly.  
“There are creatures in this world, that you don't want to meet, ever. And when they get you, when they get you, no one can help you.”  
His voice was giving Sherlock goosebumps.  
“You won't be dead. But you will be out of reach for everyone you ever cared about.”  
Sherlock frowned. How bad could it actually be? If you weren't dead, could it really be that different from moving to another country for ever? People did that all the time. “Let's get you back home,” the Doctor smiled at Sherlock as he got up to steer the TARDIS back to England.


	5. SUMMER of 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor takes Sherlock on an adventure to a haunted house. They soon find out that ghosts aren't the only things haunting this place and have to fight two threats at once while teaming up with a very stubborn mother and her daughter who wishes for nothing more than to finally give away a powerful secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Doctor Who or Sherlock.

Mycroft had friends over. Mycroft. Friends. Sherlock thought he had hit his head too hard. His mother probably thought the same, but she was much better at hiding it.

“Mum, what are they doing here?” Sherlock whispered to his mother as he passed by her office. His mother had been a mathematician before the two boys were born and now, since both of them had passed the age of swallowing Legos or touching the hot stove, she had taken up some of her work, spending a few hours in her office every other day. Sheets of paper lay spread on the desk, and a black, leather clad notebook was in her hands. She put down the pen she was writing with, as her youngest son entered the room and smiled.

“Your brother is making friends,” she said softly, “it's not a bad thing to do.”  
“Those are not friends,” Sherlock remarked as if it was as clear as the sky outside. “Mycroft doesn't like them, he just thinks Mark's father is gonna offer him an internship in-”  
“William, for God's sake close the door,” his mother laughed a bit but there was panic in her eyes for a second.

Sherlock closed the door at first with his foot and then, after seeing his mother's eyes narrowing, with his hand. “Better!” she closed her notebook and Sherlock sat down in a comfy chair, sinking into its brown cushions.  
“Let Mike be, his motives are questionable but I'm honestly happy that he has at least made some connection to kids his age.”  
Sherlock frowned, not convinced. “They're just means to an end.”  
His mother looked at him, sadly. “I'm more concerned about you, honey.”  
Sherlock let himself fall back into the chair, looking at the ceiling.  
“I spoke to your maths teacher,” Mrs Holmes said abruptly and started to play around with her notebook.  
“What?” Sherlock looked back at her with his face torn into an appalling expression. “When? Why?” he felt a little smaller right now. He was not bad at school. Not at all. But some subjects just bored him.  
Mrs Holmes raised her eyebrows at her son's reaction. “Last weekend, I met her in town.”  
Sherlock cringed.  
“She told me that you asked her to let you sit at a desk alone, in the back of the class room.” 

Sherlock just stared at the wall. She was right. People, other children, they were all annoying. The games they were playing outside were nice sometimes, but as soon as someone wanted to befriend Sherlock, he backed away. And after 2 years of primary school, he had earned himself a reputation. 

He shrugged and stood up.

Turning around he could still feel his mother's worried look on his back.  
“Will, there's nothing wrong with preferring your own company,” she stood up and walked over to Sherlock to hug him – a gesture he gladly returned. She stroked his black curls as he let him go.   
“There's nothing wrong with reading a book during lunch break instead of talking or playing games... but please, promise me, when you find someone worth spending time with, don't walk away, don't lock yourself out. Everybody needs at least one friend-” Sherlock felt like protesting and opened his mouth, but his mother interrupted him quickly, silencing the argument he had prepared. “Your dog doesn't count.”

Of course, Redbeard wasn't Sherlock's only friend. Beside his dog and the Doctor, who would hopefully re-appear this summer- Sherlock counted on it- Mycroft was also, very loosely speaking, a friend. When he was not complaining about Sherlock's stupidity, which had, thankfully, happened less and less over the last year.

Mycroft was 16 after all and he had, contrary to what their mother might believe, no friends either. He had Sherlock and a goldfish which he had patriotically called Winston. Sherlock thought it was pathetic – come on, a dog was much cooler. They were a team that let no one see how much of a team they really were and Sherlock was comfortable with that. He had never needed more.

Never having anyone else but Mycroft, made Sherlock completely mistrust the “friends” his brother had over. He was sitting on the top of the basement stairs, Redbeard on his right and had his ear pressed to the door. The boys were watching a horror film that Sherlock simply could not find any sense in. But since their mother had forbidden him to see even a second of it, he felt the need to rebel just a little bit. This film couldn't possibly be scarier than all the adventures Sherlock had had with the Doctor so far. The music was full of suspense and when Sherlock heard a squeaking noise coming from the stairs.

He couldn't tell if it was the film or the actual stairs, but Redbeard felt danger and barked. Sherlock tore away his ear immediately. “Shhhh,” he tried to silence Redbeard by holding his snout and heard the TV from the living room go silent.

“Was that a dog?” a voice from behind the door said surprised.  
“You keep a dog in your basement?” another one said.  
Sherlock grabbed Redbeard's collar and pulled him down the stairs.  
“My brother’s got one, but why...” someone, presumably Mycroft, walked over to open the door to the basement stairs.

Sherlock was already at the bottom of the staircase, completely swallowed up by the darkness, but as soon as his brother would open the door, he would see him and Sherlock wanted to avoid that. He took one step after another, unsure of where he was going. The little bits that he had overheard from the film made his stomach turn, because now he was in this dark place, completely vulnerable and ready to be eaten by monsters.

He let his hand run through Redbeard's fur as a confirmation that he was not alone and took one step forward, considering to hide under the stairs, when he bumped into something solid. He fell down backwards with his dog howling next to him out of concern for his favourite human, when two doors opened at the same time. Mycroft, upstairs, looked down asking, “William?” and in front of Sherlock's eyes the TARDIS's doors opened with a grinning Doctor holding out his hand, waving him inside.

The first step inside the TARDIS was always the best moment of the summer holidays, every year. The yellow light, the round things on the walls, the blueish glass floor and the complicated console buttons.

It was better than going home. Redbeard ran around, flooded by impressions of another dimension he had never seen. The Doctor had already walked back to the console while Sherlock and his dog made themselves feel at home.

“Why were you hiding in our basement?” Sherlock supported himself with his elbows on the TARDIS's console while watching the Doctor examine some loose cables. He was wearing the same safety goggles from the day they met.  
“Waiting for you of course,” he said enthusiastically and pulled the goggles off his head. “Just following your instructions after you told me last year not to turn up in broad daylight.” He held up his hands defensively which made Sherlock smile.

“More important question,” the time lord continued, “what were you doing down here?” he pointed at Sherlock with both fingers.  
“Hiding from Mycroft.”  
“Still?” the Doctor sighed wearily.  
“Still what?” Sherlock asked surprised, “I wasn't hiding from him the last time we met.”

He felt the sudden need to defend himself. “Also, I wasn't hiding... I was... eavesdropping.”  
“Ohhh, bad, bad Sherlock-” “William.” “Sherlock, now tell me, who were you eavesdropping on?” Sherlock frowned at the Doctor.  
“Your obsession with my middle name is peculiar.”  
“So is your vocabulary for a 9 year old.” Sherlock sighed more dramatically than needed.  
“Mycroft is watching a horror film,” he started.  
“And you are not allowed to watch it with him,” the Doctor concluded while nodding.  
“No,” Sherlock said, exasperated.  
The Doctor took one step towards him and bowed down a little bit. Sherlock had grown in these last years.  
“Because you're too little to see ghosts and monsters,” he was whispering before he raised his voice again, ”and giant fighting robot machines and mummies.”  
Sherlock laughed nervously, thinking of last year's adventure.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” and he paused, as if to wait and see whether Sherlock would correct him again, “I've got something better for you than a ghost film,” and his hands wandered up the console, pulling a lever.  
“I'll give you a ghost house.” And the TARDIS made its familiar sound, brakes releasing, leaving the year 1990. Next stop, everywhere.

When the Doctor opened the TARDIS's doors, the orange light of a sunset flooded the already orange interior of the control room. Sherlock, nearly blinded, felt his way forward, until he stood on foreign ground. The Doctor had parked his ship on a balcony. It was a huge balcony, stretching several square feet along the house which was old and in no state to be lived in. Several trees were embracing it from each side and to their left a corn field reached up to the horizon.  
“Does someone live here?” Sherlock asked, tracing the balcony's moss covered handrail with his fingers.  
It must've been ages since someone had looked after it or tried to clean it.  
Redbeard, who had come with them, snuffled his way across the balcony and as the Doctor replied with, “Well, we'll find out.” he slipped inside the half open door, vanishing in the darkness.   
“Redbeard!” Sherlock shouted and ran after his dog, leaving an alarmed Doctor standing at the doorstep of a dark, abandoned, probably haunted house.

Sherlock blindly took one step after another, not knowing where his feet would touch the ground next and also not knowing, whether there would be actual ground beneath them. If he weren't so worried for his dog, Sherlock would have been frightened to death. He felt spider webs brushing his face and getting stuck in his hair and clothes. Flinching, he closed his eyes, which didn't make much difference. The darkness was just the same. His right hand on the banister was already covered in dust and when he felt a spider creep over it, he let out a gasp, jumping to his left, hitting the wall. Sherlock cursed and grasped his left arm which started to hurt after the impact. He looked up. A light beam came rushing down the stairs and seconds later the Doctor was beside him, a candle holder in his left hand.

“Did you find him?” he whispered to Sherlock while looking around. Sherlock shook his head.   
“He's somewhere downstairs, let's go.”  
Both of them, this time with light, made their way downstairs. Still carefully testing every step. The staircase got mouldier and mouldier the closer they got to its bottom and when they finally reached the basement, the light coming from the open door above from wasn't visible anymore.

“Redbeard,” Sherlock called and the Doctor on his left shushed him. Redbeard, who had apparently not gone further than the room at the bottom of the stairs, ran to them, whimpering.  
“Redbeard,” Sherlock whispered this time as he gratefully grabbed his dog's collar. Holding on to it he leaned over to his friend.

“What are we gonna do now?” he asked, silently, when suddenly a greenish light, like a spark from a candle, crossed Sherlock's eyes. It was there for only a second and then disappeared in the blackness of the room. Sherlock thought he must've imagined it, but there it was again. Something between a miniature aurora borealis and the flicker of a candle. But this time it was taking form. 

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful,” the Doctor was stunned more than Sherlock and he held his hand out to touch the green flame, only to pass through it with his hand, making it vanish again.  
“Doctor, what's that?” Sherlock was so amazed that his voice was barely audible.  
“I don't know,” the time lord whispered and scanned the air with his screwdriver, projecting another green light into their surroundings.

More green lights, taking the shapes of animals, beings, appeared behind and below them. Creeping out of the floor like dead bodies floating in the water, they went through Sherlock and suddenly the silence was filled with an eerie sound, like music played on an organ, but underwater.  
Even Redbeard seemed to understand something supernatural was going on and stood closer to Sherlock, who still had a firm grasp on his collar.  
Sherlock's right hand held onto the Doctors jacket. There were actual ghosts. The Doctor had once more held on to his word.

Soldiers and gentlemen, old and young, two boys even, and one coachman with his carriage floated in their greenish form through the room. A group of six ladies seemed to chat up at the ceiling where the chandelier was. All of them had quite a clear form, except for their feet, which, like all ghost, were blurred into green mist. Lovers of all ages where to be seen, two couples dancing a few more were taking a walk around the room. The room, which seemed to be a grand dining hall was filled with the memories of people, all dead now, not spooking, just living their lives like they must have had before they had died. Sherlock realised that he had his mouth open with awe, when Readbeard slipped out of his grip and ran into the middle, chasing another Irish Setter. Sherlock followed him into the centre of the room. From there the whole scene seemed even more unreal, like standing in an aquarium, watching fish swim around you.

The Doctor, who had very likely seen all kinds of ghosts in his long life, was also amazed by the spectacle in front of his eyes. A ghost in the shape of an old man with only one eye made his way towards the two of them, holding his hand stretched out. He gave Sherlock a scare, who ducked, but the man didn't seem to notice him.  
“Excuse me,” Sherlock said, reaching for the man's shoulder, but his hand went right through him.   
“Can you see me?”  
“They can't,” the Doctor answered his question.  
“They're just fingerprints of the people they once were.”  
The Doctor let out a muffled laugh and then whispered to Sherlock. “Trust me, these ghosts are better then some that I've met.”  
“I wish they would do... more,” Sherlock said and looked at the Doctor with an innocent, judging look. The time lord pulled the most outrageous grimace, Sherlock had ever seen on his face.   
“More?” his eyes went wide.  
“These people are dead, have some respect. Kids these days, you are all being spoiled by television.”  
The Doctor looked at Sherlock, judging, and Sherlock returned the judgement right back.  
“You promised me a ghost house, Doctor. I thought we were going somewhere... spookier.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “This house is great, but-” a gunshot ripped through the unearthly organ background music and Sherlock covered his ears.

The Doctor screamed and his hands also went to both sides of his head, but in pain. A green, transparent bullet, leaving a bright green trace in the air had passed through the Doctor's head. Sherlock screamed as well and looked up frightened to the man's head. He could find no sign of an actual wound and then he saw a man - no, a ghost – walking towards them, a rifle in his hands. 

“Doctor!” Sherlock shouted and forced the time lord with both his hands to face the other way. The man was walking faster and Sherlock was not sure of how much the Doctor was actually taking in. He was still holding his head. The impact must have hurt him, even though the bullet had been transparent, a mere memory of a soldier.  
“Run,” Sherlock said, taking the Doctor's part this time and taking his hand as the fled through the abandoned dining hall.  
Redbeard was chasing after them as they got closer to the one pair of doors this room had. Sherlock sent a silent prayer to the universe, hoping the door may be unlocked and as if someone was listening, it opened. Sherlock's eyes grew wide as he saw electric light peering through the opening. 

There was a woman standing in the entrance, looking at the scene before her eyes as if it was daily business to her. She waved at them and Sherlock ran faster, crossing the few feet in front of him in a hurry. He pulled the Doctor behind him through the door frame and looked back, but the woman had already closed both doors.  
Redbeard barked next to him and Sherlock tried to calm him down as he took a closer look at the woman. She was probably in her mid 20s and judging from her dress and the hairstyle her dark blonde hair was in, they were now in the 1920s.  
“Thank you,” he said, out of breath.  
She didn't answer him, just nodded her head and turned around, as if she just held the door open for them out of pure politeness.  
“Who are you, are you living here alone?” Sherlock was curious and since the Doctor was still not in a condition to speak for himself, he was the one who had to ask all the questions. She still didn't say anything. Instead she nodded her head into the direction of the next door.

They were now in a small living room, poorly lit by candles in sconces. “Are we safe in here?” Sherlock asked, hoping to see yet another nod. But before their mysterious saviour was able to react, the Doctor breathed in loudly and heavily, shaking his head so hard, Sherlock thought it would fall off.  
“Doctor?” Sherlock asked and Redbeard jumped up to lick the time lord's face. “Are you okay?”  
“I don't know.” He still had his mouth wide open, trying to catch some air. “Argh, what was that?”   
The Doctor was panting and panic was still visible on his face.  
“A ghost, a bullet, a ghost bullet?” Sherlock hastily explained.  
“How can a ghost bullet hurt me?”  
“I don't know!”  
“How can it?” Sherlock directed the question to the girl.  
She didn't reply.  
“Who is this?” the Doctor asked Sherlock first, before looking at the young woman properly.  
“Who are you? Do you live here?”

When she still didn't reply, the Doctor tilted his head and used sign language to apparently form the same question again. Sherlock took a close look. Of course the thought, that she might be deaf had crossed his mind, but he didn't knew what to do with it. He hadn't needed sign language so far in his life, but was definitely eager to learn it. Especially now that he saw how the Doctor was using it.

He wished he could’ve understood it. When they were finished, after just a few minutes, the Doctor clapped his hand.

“Perfect! Thank you!” he smiled and hugged the girl, kissing her on the forehead. She smiled shyly and her whole face changed while doing so. Sherlock thought that this might be her first smile in a very long time.

She walked them through the building from one room to another, passing old portraits and busts. Sherlock had the strong feeling that the only visitors these dusty rooms had, were this girl and, well, deceased people. The Doctor, in his opinion, trusted people to easily. Clearly, the girl was no stranger to being in this house and Sherlock was, although he had no reason to dislike her, suspicious.

She had reacted to calmly when she opened the door and saved their lives. Now another door was in front of them and the young woman opened it with a shaking hand.  
“Eliza!” a woman, probably in her mid sixties was standing in the middle of the room, which appeared to be a kitchen, shooting them a ready-to-kill glance. Eliza gave her mother a quick explanation with her hands and Sherlock eyed every single movement very carefully.  
“So, guests?” It wasn't a question, more like an accusation and her brow furrowed while she said it.   
“Don't expect any hospitality,” she said furiously, while shoving a chair in her way under the next table and throwing the tea towel she was holding on it.  
“I'm... the Doctor,” the time lord said carefully. Sherlock felt his last thought being shattered, because obviously the Doctor didn't trust this woman.  
“Doctor?” she asked, mocking, “we don't have any patients in need here and unless you can cure my daughter's hearing impairment, I would advise you to offer your services elsewhere.”

The Doctor looked hurt and Sherlock could see that he didn't want to let it on. “Leave my house now,” she said once more.  
“This not your house,” Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. He didn't know where the courage came from, but his mouth was moving on its own. “This is the house of hundreds of green, shimmery, dead people. They own it. And I want to know why.” Sherlock ended his speech and felt the Doctor's eyes on him. His mouth felt dry and his mind alert. No one in this room had expected the nine year old boy to say anything.

The woman raging now.  
“Eliza,” she shouted and grabbed her daughter by the arm, “where did you pick them up?”  
“Oh we found in by ourselves,” the Doctor said calmly and Sherlock was a little bit frightened by the undertone in his voice.  
“I wasn't talking to you,”  
“Yes you were,” Sherlock interrupted.  
He moved towards the two, but got held back by the Doctor's hand on his shoulder.  
He shook it off.

“You were talking to us. Your daughter can't hear you. So obviously you wanted us to answer to you. If you were talking to her, you would have used sign language. Don’t expect us to be that stupid, we're not.”  
“Sherlock,” the Doctor scolded him.  
“Sherlock? Interesting name,” the woman said, her eyes fixed on him. “Now, how did you get in here?”  
Sherlock had another snappish remark right on his tongue, but he swallowed it, remembering that what they did, had basically been a break in.  
The Doctor, unfortunately, gave everything away by looking up at the ceiling.  
The woman frowned and followed his eyes.  
“How did you get in?” she asked again, voice raising with every word.  
Her daughter, Eliza, seemed suddenly uneasy as well.  
“HOW? Tell me!” she shouted now.  
“Through an open balcony door. Upstairs.”  
The Doctor's voice was calm but Sherlock could feel that he was expecting a blow.

”You idiot!” She was mad, obviously. But it was more than that. She was pale and her paleness did not come from the lack of sunlight in this awful house.  
She was scared for her life.

With a stride forward she was at the door that lead back to the awful ghosts and the Doctor, much to Sherlock's misery, followed her immediately.  
“What's going on?” Sherlock asked. He grabbed Redbeard's collar and dragged him with them. Eliza was right next to him and tried to explain what all of this was about. But Sherlock did only understand the words that he had seen her do so far and one of them was definitely danger. “Great,” Sherlock mumbled under his voice.

They were walking fast. Through every dust filled room up to the very heart of all evil. The haunted dining hall. The ghost were gone by now but Sherlock still had an eerie feeling about everything. “The door was open,” the Doctor explained to Eliza's mother while they were walking. “We did not know this house was inhabited. Of course we would have never entered it, if-”  
“What is your name, Doctor?” the woman asked.  
“Smith,” the time lord lied confidently.  
“Doctor Smith, this house is inhabited by more vicious creatures than the one that blew a hole in your head.” The Doctor grabbed his head as if to make sure it was still there.  
“Well, then show them to me,” he said, “I’m not a usual Doctor. Trust me.”  
Sherlock felt more trust lighting up in him, but the woman was having none of it.  
“Doctor Smith, not even you can help us with these creatures. Unless you are a god.” She stopped talking as they reached the top of the staircase which Sherlock had previously ran down blindly.

The door was open and before Sherlock could sneak a peek outside, the Doctor slammed it shut. “Don't move,” he said and Sherlock thought he had not very often seen the man so scared. His whole body was tense and it was visible by his every motion.

“Doctor, what is it?” Sherlock asked and walked up to the glass window on the door. He was barely tall enough to see through it. It was dark and the only light out there was the full moon above and the stars. But it was enough light to distinguish a statue standing next to the TARDIS. It hadn't been there before.  
“This, Doctor, is what I'm talking about,” the elderly woman said as a very confused Sherlock looked at mother and child and then up to his best friend.  
“I don't understand, Doctor, where did it come from. It wasn't there, earlier.” But the Doctor didn't take his eyes away from the statue of an angel covering its eyes. Not even for a second. His voice was shaking, as he spoke.

“Whatever you do, don't blink.”

“I don't understand,” Sherlock said. “Why do we have to stay here? Why can’t we move?” he looked back at the woman, who started laughing. “Look at you. You don't even know what you've done.” With that, she took her daughter by the arm and turned around, walking back into the darkness.

“Doctor, let's go downstairs,” Sherlock was sitting on the dirty floor, arms embracing his angled legs.  
The man sighed. “We can’t.”  
“Then let's go back to the TARDIS and get away,” Sherlock suggested which only earned him a faint smile by the time lord, who was still looking outside.  
“What's wrong with that?” Sherlock asked. “And have you seriously not blinked since you told us not to?”  
“We are still alive, aren't we?” the Doctor said faintly.  
“What does blinking have anything to do with being alive?” Sherlock was mad now. “Explain it to me!”  
The Doctor reached his hand out to Sherlock, who took it, and without taking his eyes away, he held the boy up to the glass window.  
“Ahh!” the Doctor sighed with relief, closing his eyes for the first time in ages.  
“Don't blink!” he quickly told Sherlock. “These angels, they're not ordinary statues. They're some of the most dangerous creatures in this universe. As long as you are looking at them, they seem like a statue. But they're not. They're quantum locked.”  
“What does that mean?” Sherlock asked curiously.  
“It means, that they can only move when no one is looking at them.”  
“What happens when they move?”  
“They get you,” the Doctor said, “they get you and you're gone.”  
Sherlock felt terrible. His throat was incredibly dry as he tried to form the words that would presumably doom them.

“Doctor. I blinked.”

The angel was gone. The Doctor had looked in every direction possible without opening the door. “You shouldn't have let me up there to look,” Sherlock said, distressed. “I can't go as long as you do without blinking.”

The time lord didn't reply. He just went through his hair with his right hand, messing it up. “Let's go downstairs and see if we're welcome,” he said and strode past Sherlock in a hurry. They walked through the dark house, this time, since they couldn't find a candle or matchsticks, the Doctor held up his screwdriver, lighting the way.

When they finally got to the kitchen again, Eliza was sitting quietly on a chair in the middle of the rectangular, candlelit room, leaning over a table, reading a book. She raised her head as they walked in and smiled. She was happy, Sherlock could see that. It was maybe the first time for very long that she had the company of guests. Her mother on the other hand, was beyond cynical.

“Well, well. What have you been doing up there the whole time?” The Doctor gave her no answer.   
“We will help you,” he said instead.  
“We don't need your help.” the woman said strongly and nearly spit in the time lord’s face while speaking.  
“Yes you do. You need help more than anyone and we will not leave until we have fixed this. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for your daughter,” the Doctor said and Sherlock felt the woman silently surrender.  
“Now, please tell me your name!”  
“Margaret,” she said, “Thompson. And this is my daughter Eliza.”  
“Nice to meet you both. Now, before we start investigating, may we stay the night?”

Sherlock felt goosebumps on his skin as Mrs Thomson walked them to their rooms. He had wished to stay in the house of course. For the ghosts and the mysteries. But he didn't like the woman. She was so incredibly rude and Sherlock had to give his best not to feel ten times smaller when she spoke. Mycroft would never let a person like that intimidate him. He solemnly swore to himself, that this would be the only character trait he would try to achieve by looking up to his older brother. 

They were given two rooms. Both looked as if they were build with the intention to scare the soul out of the body. Sherlock had always left spare clothes in the TARDIS, but this time there had been no time to get them and so he had nothing to sleep in but the jeans and jumper from the day before. 

Not that he particularly cared. The bed was creaky and the sheets, who thankfully had not been there the last one hundred years, but were given to them by Eliza's mother, had a few holes. The rest of the room was old and dusty. Blinds were drawn and covered the view to the garden. Sherlock tried to look outside, but all he could see was darkness. The trees were growing so close to the house the moonlight didn't reach anything down here. He got into the bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

Redbeard, who had been very quiet and tired for the last few hours, got up as well and lay down at the end of the bed, providing Sherlock's feet with a comforting warmth. He knocked a morse coded good night on the wall, but before the Doctor’s response came, Sherlock had already fallen asleep.

Sherlock had found no time to adjust his wrist watch to the foreign time when they had arrived, so when he woke up he had no sense of time whatsoever. The light, coming in from between the blinds was very green- he blamed the trees for that- and for the first time he realised the amount of spiders he had shared the room with. Spider webs covered nearly every inch of the room. An old desk was standing lonely on the far side like a skeleton. Skinny legs and a thin top, white and grey mixing with the old brown that was once to be seen. Several shelves containing books were veiled by a white stringy curtain so you could only guess what books might be hidden behind it.

Spiders creeped up and down from the ceiling, next to a picture frame and a mirror. And one, with a body bigger than Sherlock's thumb, was currently sitting on the wall next to his face. Sherlock jumped up and fell out of his bed, waking up a very distressed Redbeard while doing so.

The dog howled in confusion and got down from the bed as well. Fortunately, Sherlock did not have to get dressed, so he walked out of the dusty old room immediately, his dog following his steps. The hall ended in the kitchen which looked surprisingly nice in daylight. There was not much light coming in for some reason. The family had either drawn all the blinds available or covered all windows with old rags and bed sheets.

The Doctor was already sitting at the kitchen table, with a cup of tea and an empty plate next to him. Sherlock's stomach growled. He had ignored the feeling of hunger. It hadn't been very prominent last night and this morning he had been too busy running away from spiders, but now he realised how hungry he was. It had been hours since he'd last eaten something.

“Morning,” the Doctor turned around and smiled at Sherlock, throwing an apple in his direction.   
“Trust me, eat that and not the food,” he whispered in his ear as Sherlock sat down on an old wooden chair at the table. Eliza was preparing breakfast, for her, her mother and also the guests. Sherlock was beyond grateful, when the girl shoved a cup of tea in his direction.  
“Morning,” he said looking at the Doctor and then at Eliza. “And, thanks...” Sherlock looked at the apple and then at the plate, Eliza put in front of him. Toasted bread was covered with white patches on several spots. He looked at the Doctor in search for moral guidance, but the time lord had his gaze fixed on the deaf girl, gesturing a “Thank you”. Sherlock reluctantly took one slice of bread and forced a smile, only to shove it down his jean's pockets after Eliza turned her back, happily. Not only the bread, but also the cheese and ham looked awfully ancient. Sherlock could not make out how ancient, since he didn't dare to get too close to the cheese. Taking the apple in both hands, Sherlock took a big bite out of it and relished every second of it. His contentment was quickly interrupted.

“I have questions,” Mrs Thompson stomped into the kitchen. “You break in here, disturb our peace-” Sherlock nearly choked on his apple at this, “and leave the door open for these vicious creature to invade our home.”  
“Those creatures were there before, all the evidence points to it!” Sherlock had no patience left with this woman.

If Mrs Thompson was furious that a 9 year old boy had interrupted her, she didn't let it on. “Who is the boy? How are you related?” she asked the Doctor, nodding her head in Sherlock's direction.   
“And why did you come here... How did you get here?” Mrs Thompson might have been a good actress but Sherlock could see behind her eyes, which were rapidly looking from him to the Doctor, and in her hands, which were tightly grasping her apron, that she was scared. Scared and a little bit grateful, because now she was not alone in this anymore.

“You don't know whether these angels are harmful, yet you are scared and don't leave the house,” the Doctor was patient. So, so patient and Sherlock had absolutely no understanding of it. The time lord had his hands clasped together and his brow furrowed.  
“What happened to Eliza's father?” the Doctor asked firmly. Mrs Thompson grasped her apron even tighter.  
“This is none of your business.”  
“Everybody who needs help is our business,” the Doctor said and stood up, leaning over the table.   
He eyed the woman intently.  
“Now, have you always lived here or did you move here?” Before Mrs Thompson could answer, Sherlock replied.  
“They haven't. Most furniture is 100 years old or even older. The other rooms show no belongings of this family.” It wasn't a good idea to interrupt, Sherlock decided seconds afterwards. Mrs Thompson shot him a death glare.  
“Who raised you?” she barked. “Don't tell me this is your son. If my daughter had ever behaved like this, I-”  
“Ahh, but he's not. He's my assistant.” The Doctor proudly patted Sherlock’s back.  
“Assistant?” Mrs Thompson let out a snark.  
“Yes, assistant, I am John Smith and this is-” the Doctor shot Sherlock a mindful look and Sherlock suspected that he was not supposed to use his real name.  
“Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes,” he said confidently and crossed his arms. She gasped disparagingly.   
“He is young enough to be your son! And no one is called John Smith.”  
The Doctor gave her the most disapproving look. “I beg your pardon. No one is called Sherlock either, and here he is.” He pointed with both hands at Sherlock, who frowned. The Doctor obviously found great pleasure in the fact that Sherlock chose this particular name, his middle name, for some peculiar reason.  
“We are here to investigate,” the time lord said and straightened his bow tie.  
“Investigate what?” Mrs Thompson said and Sherlock could hear her voice slightly falter.  
“Why you are here with your daughter in this dreadful house?”

Mrs Thompson was quiet for a second too long. All the hand towel swinging and throwing, the firm hands that were grasping her apron tightly, found a sudden end.

She cleared her throat. “My husband died in the great war.” She looked neither Sherlock nor the Doctor in the eye.  
“You would've gotten a widow's pension,” the Doctor faintly remarked, “why live here, when you could live anywhere?”  
He leaned forward over the table. Mrs Thompson's discontent was evidently visible.  
“Obviously the house means something to you, otherwise you and your daughter wouldn't be living there,” the Doctor said. “Did your husband die here? Because he clearly didn't die in the war.”  
He said all of this, Sherlock though, in a tone that he could never imitate. It was too soft for the circumstances, Sherlock thought. “Is he one of the ghosts?”

Mrs Thompson didn't answer the Doctor's question. Her face was as white as a sheet of paper and Sherlock felt a bit sorry for Eliza who didn't understand a word they were saying, looking worried from them to her mother.  
“One of the ghosts is more violent than the others? How come?” the Doctor pushed the interrogation further.  
Mrs Thompson shook her head, as if trying to escape a trance. “I don't know what you're talking about. It could be. I don't dwell among the dead, I like to spend my life with the living.”

Oh, what a lie. Sherlock wanted to shout but the Doctor took the chance away from him, by angrily replying, “you live in a ghost house, all you get here is dead people.”  
“You know,” Sherlock finally opened his mouth again, after waiting for the right moment, “you know that someone shot the Doctor. It must be someone you know.”  
“I have no idea what you're talking about, boy.” Mrs Thompson shook her head carelessly.  
“Yes you do. Yesterday night you said: 'This house is inhabited by creatures worse than the ones who blew a hole in your head.' You said that to the Doctor. You know about the man who hurt him. Who is it?”  
Sherlock was looking her in the eye intently.  
“You think you're so clever.”  
“Yes I am, so who is it?,” Sherlock remarked, disregarding all civilities.  
“Is it your husband? Why did he become a murderer? Was he one before? Did he tried to kill you and it didn't work and now he's dead and still tries to kill you?”  
Sherlock didn't dare to look at the Doctor. This wasn't the first time that he opened his mouth and said things, against his friend's instructions. He would be judged. He was sure of that. But Sherlock was done with being ignored.

But the Doctor said nothing. He still had his eyes on the one big liar in the room. ”Only vengeful spirits can actually hurt people. Not every ghost has that ability. So something must have happened. It would make things easier for all of us, if you told us. But to be honest, this is not your biggest problem. Our biggest problem are the weeping angels. The angel statue outside. It's not the only one. Not the way you looked at it. And it's gone from the balcony, that means it must be somewhere else.”  
For a few seconds, Sherlock thought, they could've heard a needle drop. Then, a frantic Eliza started to make signs from across the table. She didn't get far, unfortunately, because her mother shut her up by holding her hands down to the table.

Their conversation had gone nowhere and it was depressing. At least Sherlock had been dismissed from the moulding breakfast, which was a relief. Mrs Thompson had taken her daughter into a different room to talk to her. Of course, eavesdropping was not an option, because they were conversing in sign language, but the urge to just go up to the door and put his ear on it, was there. The Doctor was running around with his screwdriver, madly scanning every fissure in the walls, every crack in the kitchen tiles.

It was exhausting to look at, because Sherlock had no idea what he was looking for, and neither it seemed, had the Doctor. On the other hand, it gave Sherlock the time to walk Redbeard. He checked twice if there were angel statues outside and when he couldn't find any, he opened the door properly. Redbeard ran outside as if he was stung by a hornet.

The garden of the house was tiny. It was debatable if one could even call it a garden, since there was no fence. It just stretched itself out into the woods, leaving room for creatures in the night to come and haunt the place. Which wasn't needed of course. The creatures were already in the house. Redbeard cared about none of that. He jumped around, running from one side to another, keeping Sherlock's eyes so occupied that he didn't even realise someone was standing behind him, until a cold hand touched his shoulder.

Sherlock flinched and darted away.

He had his hands up in defence, not blinking even a little. “Redbeard!” he shouted in the middle of turning around. The figure reaching out to touch him was thankfully not an angel. It was Eliza. Exhaling shakily, Sherlock supported himself with one hand against the wall.

“You scared me,” he gestured with his hands, clumsily. Eliza looked at him surprised and started to smile widely.  
“You understand me?” her hands wrote in the air.  
“I observed. It took some time,” Sherlock signed to a highly impressed Eliza. The girl looked around, carefully, and then started to wildly explain things. Sherlock could not catch up. It was frustrating. Eliza's hands were moving in a way he could only understand to a certain extent and Sherlock was certain that he missing out on the important parts.  
The girl's face said it all. Whatever she was telling him, it was bad. It was immense and it was important and it was so, so bad that the emotion was visible in every feature of her face  
“Slower,” Sherlock gestured, but Eliza had no time to repeat what she said. She stopped moving completely and tapped Sherlock on his shoulder, pointing behind him.

He turned around.

Several feet behind him, and to their right, weeping angels were standing. One of them had its eyes covered, living up to its name. The other one held out its hand, pointing directly at Sherlock and Eliza. The Doctor had told Sherlock explicitly not to blink last night. Not to even go outside if there was a possibility that weeping angels could be there. To stay away from them at any cost.

Sherlock took one step ahead. He heard Eliza behind him move and grab his shoulder. He shook it off without looking back. He couldn't. After all, he was supposed to keep his eyes on the stone angel. One, two, three steps more – there were only a few feet between Sherlock and the angel. He could see the exact shade of grey of its skin. The rustling noise of leaves on the ground confirmed Eliza's presence behind him. He took one more step- snap -wooden boards cracked under his feet and Sherlock slipped away from Eliza's grip, falling into the darkness.

Falling was easy, it was the impact, that would hurt. Sherlock was lucky. Old mattresses were stored in this room and not matter how disgustingly ancient they might’ve been, it was still better than getting his bones broken.  
“Ouch,” Sherlock sat up in what seemed to be the family's basement. Broken chairs were stacked upon each other together with an old table, two chairs and many, many shelves. A bark came from above. Redbeard looked down, whimpering in concern for his owner.  
“Redbeard,” Sherlock shouted and patted the mattress, trying to get his dog to jump down here. 

Could the angels jump? Sherlock was not sure. They were made of stone but obviously they could move and there was still the question where the angel from last night had vanished to. Redbeard took the jump. With a small thud and a loud whimper he landed next to Sherlock, who immediately started to pet his dog in order to calm him down. The light coming in from above was dimmed one more time, by a person looking through. Eliza. She had been clever enough, so far, to not take her eyes away from the angels, but now she was looking down.  
“Don't! Look back up!” Sherlock shouted and hoped strongly that the angels wouldn't have come far, but he already saw a grey hand stretching out over the opening into Eliza's direction.  
“Jump,” Sherlock said, forgetting for a second that she couldn't her him.  
“Jump while looking at them.” Sherlock had his eyes on the angel as Eliza hit the mattress next to him.  
“Why is there a hole?” Sherlock signed, still not looking at her. Eliza pulled at his sleeve and Sherlock finally looked back down. She had her eyes on the angel now, gesturing an explanation to Sherlock. He didn't understand everything, but it seemed that the hole was used as ventilation years ago.  
“Keep your eyes on the angel, I'll look for an exit,”Sherlock signed and walked away. Two steps later he stopped. His left hand grabbed Redbeard's collar immediately as his dog started to growl. “Oh damn,” Sherlock cursed and walked back to Eliza, not turning around. There was another angel on the stairs.

Sherlock considered shouting for the Doctor. There were two possibilities. Either he would hear them and come down, getting himself into danger and they would need to depend on Mrs Thompson to get them out or he would not hear them and Mrs Thompson would. Both possibilities were not much to Sherlock's liking. He grabbed Eliza's hand who flinched at the touch. “Run,” he mouthed and they sprinted off into the uncertainty of the basement.

Of course they got separated. It had to happen eventually. Boxes and piles of clutter had turned the basement into a labyrinth and Sherlock and Redbeard had gotten lost in it without any clue on how to get out. Thankfully the weeping angels were nowhere to be seen and Sherlock slowed down, looking at everything a bit more careful.  
There was an open box right next to him, old frames sticking out. Sherlock traced them with his finger and pulled one out to take a closer look. All the other boxes down here were closed, probably unused for ages. This one was new. There was a man on the picture, old, bald and moustached. Sherlock took out another one. He could not find any connection between the people. Were they possibly residents of the house? He took out another one and it nearly slid out of his grip in surprise. He knew the face. But this face had been painted centuries ago. Painting style and canvas said so undoubtedly. Perhaps it was an old relative, a relative that passed a great deal of genes on to her descendants, Sherlock thought and swallowed hard. The woman on the picture was an exact portrayal of Mrs Thompson. She had to know this picture existed, he thought. This box had been opened not long ago. But did she know why she or a copy of her was here on this portrait?  
Sherlock put the painting back into its box. Redbeard beside him had become somewhat impatient. “Shush!” he told his dog off, in fear of attracting the weeping angels. His eyes traced the basement very carefully. There were no angels to be seen at first, but Sherlock's eyes were trained and he saw more than most people. There were cracks in the wall. Plenty of them. Sherlock went closer to the wall, where pieces of bricks had fallen out and the plaster had crumbled off already. Tiny hands, stone cold and anything but dead were reaching out of this little hole, into life. Nothing had to come inside, the dreaded horror had been living inside the walls all along. A shiver went down Sherlock's spine and he took a step back, accidentally running into a wooden shelf with a stone bust placed on it. It wasn't the stone bust's luckiest moment, standing on this particular shelf in this very moment, because Sherlock freaked and ran, shoving all books and boxes off it in the process. He took the largest steps he could, running away, looking for an exit desperately. The sound of little feet clattering was quiet but there and it was not his feet that were making the sound. It wasn't Redbeard's paws either.  
Sherlock tried to look everywhere. Back and forth and up and down. There was no imminent threat next to him, but his eyes spotted several baby angels coming out of the wall, stretching their bodies onto a new hunting ground. Sherlock's large steps grew even larger. A loud noise came from the other side of the room and the next minute, Sherlock clashed into Eliza.  
She was out of breath. Her usually tidy hair stuck out of the tightly fastened bun in every direction and her eyes were wide. Behind her, there was an angel. It wasn't big. But it was definitely not one that you could easily step or jump over. Sherlock had his eyes fixed on it. Eliza had turned around now and could see as well what had been behind her all the time.  
Sherlock took her hand like the Doctor had always taken his. He realised just now, that maybe it hasn't only been a gesture of help and kindness the time lord had been offering him. He could easily feel her pulse racing. Sherlock was determined not to blink. Half a minute passed, which was easy. Then, a minute. It was harder, so much harder then expected. When something touched his foot and he shifted, the distraction was a blessing. One glance to the bottom, a blink of his eyes. There had been a rat, moving at the shuffling of his feet. A squeaking noise and a second later, nothing. The rat was gone and in the seconds Sherlock had been looking away, the angel had lowered his back and stretched one arm in the poor rat's direction. So that's what would happened to them. They would disappear. Of course, the Doctor had explained it to him. But it seemed so much more real when he saw it with his own eyes.

They needed to get out. One way or another. They may have left an angel in, yesterday, out of pure lack of knowledge. And today, through an accident that had sent them both down the basement. They needed to escape. Badly.

Sherlock walked slowly around the angel, switching from one open eye to another. Behind Eliza, in the left hand corner of the basement was a circular staircase leading up to a trapdoor. They would have to climb over a few boxes and a small shelve, but nothing that couldn't be done. Sherlock shot Eliza a quick glance.  
“Stay here, don't blink. There's a way out.”  
Her eyes, already big out of fear grew even bigger. She nodded. Sherlock left his place behind the angel, running towards the staircase. The baby angels that had chased him through the room were still on his mind and it troubled him that he couldn’t see them anymore. It would be more than infuriating to be caught by them now, on the brink of their escape. The metal railing or the stairs was dusty and dirty and by the time he reached the trapdoor, his hands were nearly black. One push with his right hand and it was open and from the other side a very surprised time lord was looking at him.

“Doctor!” Sherlock shouted at his friend. “Get us out of here!” The Doctor pulled Sherlock out of the basement with both his hands.  
“What were you doing down there?” he asked, staggered by the unexpected appear of his young friend.  
Sherlock didn't answer the question.  
“They're down there, everywhere. They're in the walls, coming out of every crack. Lots of baby angels, a few bigger ones, all shapes and sizes.”  
The Doctor looked at him, unbelieving.  
“Angels!” Sherlock shouted, when he thought, his friend might not understand him. The time lord let the door fall into place again, locking it with his screwdriver.  
“Well then,”  
“Wait! Eliza's still down there.” Sherlock said, remembering his friend. He had, happy to be out of there, nearly forgotten that the girl was still in reach of the weeping angels.  
“Why didn't you say so in the beginning?” the Doctor asked him, reproachfully and unlocked the door again. Sherlock tilted his head uncomfortably and looked away. Maybe his brain was not made for caring. Maybe it was only meant for thinking.

The time lord jumped down the hole, landing on the staircase and ran down to get Eliza. Sherlock jumped down right after him, overlooking the whole scene from above. Brave Eliza had still stood where she was supposed to stand. Both hands knotted into her dress, she wasn't shaking like in the beginning, but stood there firmly eyeing the angel in front of her.  
The Doctor walked past her, which made her jump in fright. But nothing happened. The time lord and also Sherlock were looking at the angel, which was unable to move. He signed to her, asking her to go up the stairs and followed her shortly afterwards, still not taking even a single eye off the statue.

Sherlock was lying flat on the wooden floor with his back on the ground. His mind didn't quite grasp what could have happened down there if they had been less cautious. He might've never gotten back to the Doctor. Where was this rat, that ran into the angel's open embrace? And where would he be? He could nearly hear the Doctor speak to Eliza, concerned, although no words were needed. The peaceful atmosphere didn't last long.

A minute later, Eliza's furious mother, face reddened, stomped into the room, speechless. Her speechlessness didn't last long, unfortunately.  
“What happened?” she asked, exceptionally calm. It scared Sherlock a little, even after the dreadful adventure he just had in the basement. The Doctor helped up Eliza, who was currently sitting on the floor.  
“You have to listen to us. No matter how much you dislike us.” Mrs Thompson frowned and walked up to them, grabbing her daughter by her arm.  
“You told us that there are creatures inhabiting this house. Well, they're coming for you.”  
“Do you think, Doctor, that I don't know that?” she snarled.  
“Then let us help. We cannot leave, can we? The angels have surrounded the whole house.” Mrs Thompson nodded slowly and smiled, unbelieving.  
“How is a man that calls himself a 'Doctor' with a 9 year old 'assistant' going to help me?” Sherlock could not believe what he was hearing. This woman had been screaming at them, just a few hours ago. And now, nothing was left but harmless cynicism.  
“Well,” the Doctor started grinning and raised his eyebrows, which earned him a disrespectful glance from Mrs Thompson. “I've got a convincing résumé.”

“How did you do that?” Sherlock was sitting on a stool in the Doctor's room and watched his friend disassembling his mattress, while fondly stroking Redbeard's fur. The Doctor had fumbled out a few springs from the inside, eyeing them in the little light coming in from outside.  
“And what are you... Are you trying to build something?” Sherlock asked, perplexed, as the time lord took a futuristic looking device out of his jacket's inner pocket and threw it against the wall. It shattered and landed on the ground in several pieces.  
“Yes, no. Something, somehow, kinda... yes...” To any other person the man could've sounded like a maniac.  
“I am rebuilding something.”  
“That looks like breaking to me.” Sherlock remarked.  
“Yes and no. I am breaking something old to build something new. It's the circle of life.” He was having fun, Sherlock could see it.  
“What's it gonna be?”  
“A timey-wimey-detector.”  
“And what was it before?”  
“A more sensitive timey-wimey-detector.”  
The Doctor threw several screws over his shoulder, bending the mattresses’ springs in a weird way to make them fit into the alien device.  
“This house is so full of the supernatural, my old detector would be beeping non-stop if it was working properly.” Sherlock was almost certain that the man had absolutely no idea what he did. But for some reason, it always worked in the end.  
Maybe that was the answer to everything in the end. To stop thinking and simply do.  
“You asked me how I did what, earlier?” he asked Sherlock, still concentrated on the detector.  
“Yes. Change her mind. You convinced Eliza's mother to accept our help. How?”  
“I didn't do anything. You did all the work. You're a genius. Did you know that? I bet you do.” Sherlock felt a warm feeling settle in his gut.  
“I didn't do any convincing,” he said, and decided to ignore the mention of the word “genius”.  
“No, but you endangered her daughter's life.” The Doctor was finally looking at him.  
“A normal person would've thrown me out of the house and not given in to our requests,” Sherlock said confused, trying to imagine what his mother might have done.  
“Normal people are a myth, Sherlock. I've never met one,” the Doctor smiled and played with his nearly finished device in his hands.  
“You mean, we've shown her the actual danger she is in?” Sherlock asked and the Doctor smiled, pointing at him, with a spring in his right hand. “Exactly!” he went back to building his new detector.  
“You're not correcting me any more.” he suddenly said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
“About my name?”  
“Yes, you've stopped-”  
“Yeah, because you wouldn't.” he sighed and pouted. “Why? Why do you insist on calling me by my middle name?” Sherlock asked, like a million times before.  
“Spoilers,” the time lord said and fixed his bow tie.  
“What's that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked, irritated, but never got an answer from the Doctor.

They had a plan. Even more of a plan than what the Doctor usually had. Sherlock had his doubts, not because it was crazy, but because it was too sane. Eliza and her mother had packed up most of their belongings and now both of them were standing awkwardly at the kitchen table. The one room that connected the part were they were living in with the rest of the house. In the beginning he had thought it to be weird, but then remembered that in old houses, the kitchen was not a part to be lived in if one was not a servant.

Sherlock suddenly felt like struck by lightning. The ghosts he knew from story books and television only haunted places they had lived in when they were still alive. So why were there no ghosts living in the servant's quarters. Where did all the ghosts come from, in the very beginning? They had been so focused on the weeping angels that they completely overlooked what was right there in front of their eyes. Sherlock had been so deep inside his head, that he hadn't heard the Doctor talking to him and was surprised by the worrying eyes, looking at him with concern.

“Oh thank God, he's awake,” Mrs Thompson sarcastically remarked. “Where were you? I said your name three times.”  
“Where do the ghosts come from?” Sherlock asked without answering the Doctor's question first. The time lord looked surprised but impressed at his friend.  
“Yes, ghosts... Important, but we have bigger problems than that!”  
“No,” Sherlock had both his hands raised as if he was holding an invisible object. “No, no. There are no ghosts here. Why are there no ghosts in the servant's quarters. Ghosts, Doctor, you must know something about them. Ghosts in general, not just these ones, here. Don't they haunt places they've lived in?”

Sherlock spoke really fast. Faster than he’d ever spoken. His eyes went flying from the Doctor to Eliza and then to Mrs Thompson, who didn't look uncomfortable, but something close to it. She had, from the very first moment on, refused to give them any information about the house. And now her life depended on it.

“They're the ghosts of our ancestors. Not mine, directly, but my husband's. Eliza's father's,” The Doctor looked at her.  
“Why didn't you say so from the beginning?”  
“It doesn't matter.” Mrs Thompson seemed unsettled by the tone in the Doctor's voice. His eyes were wide and even Sherlock's clever mind did not catch up with the time lord's train of thoughts.  
”Umm, Doctor, I have to agree with her,” said Sherlock. “There's no visible connection to the weeping angels. Unless, they like dead people and scary houses. Then I would get it.”  
“Oh you don't understand,” the Doctor put his hands together as if he didn't know where to put them.  
“So it's connected?” asked Sherlock raising his eyebrows in confusion and impatience.  
“No... Somehow... Maybe. But it's fun. It's better than running and hiding from weeping angels. This is interesting.”

The Doctor ran his finger through his hair.  
“You said the house had not been lived in for several decades!” the Doctor pointed at Sherlock. “The furniture is old, dust everywhere... but...” Sherlock looked at the Doctor anticipating. He had a theory and he was beyond curious to hear if the Doctor had the same one.  
“There are ghosts from every generation.” said Sherlock, when the Doctor wouldn't go on. “They are wearing clothes from every time period. From the early 1700s to the 1920s.” Sherlock swallowed, hoping no one would realise the slip. “'Til now.”  
“When was the house built?” the Doctor directed the question at Mrs Thompson, who Sherlock could not remember being quiet for so long since they've met her.  
“1701,” she said. “1701. Strange number when you think about it. Adds up to nine. Always had my problems with that number. Does it come directly after eight? Or is there something in between? Anyway, bad memories, don't want to talk about it,” the Doctor was ranting, waving his hands through the air. “However, more than two centuries have passed since 1701, and when we look at the ghosts, what do they tell us?” he looked at Sherlock again, intently, expecting an answer might already know, but giving his friend still the chance to say it.  
“They all died here.” The Doctor's hands found rest, pointing both fingers at Sherlock. “They may not have all lived here, but they all died here.” he continued, speaking out loud a thought that let a slight shiver run down his back. “They came here to die.”

“What is you plan now, Doctor?” Mrs Thompson asked, unnerved. “You may have discovered the reason for the unbearable hauntings in this house, but does that save me and my daughter?” The sarcasm in her voice was easy to detect. “No,” the Doctor raised his right hand, holding the sonic screwdriver directed at the door. “But an incredible blue box is standing upstairs, waiting to take us away, far away from this place.”  
“I'm not claiming to understand, how a box can save us,” said Mrs Thompson, and Sherlock could hear the hopelessness that made her agree to their plan anyway. “But how will we get there? The house and its exteriors are infested by the angels.” Her objections earned her a few seconds of silence which was then disturbed by a buzzing sound and green light. The door was unlocked. “Trust me,” the time lord said and smirked. “I'm the Doctor.”

They didn't close the door behind them. It was something they had never done so far, trying to keep the weeping angels at bay and hiding from the ghosts. But now they wouldn't come back. There was no chance of life for them in the rooms behind them, filled with mouldy food and spider webs. Their future had the shape of a blue Police Box and it was waiting for them two stories above. But before they could reach it they had to get through the house and all its inhabitants.

Sherlock and the Doctor lead the way. Carrying a candle stick and the screwdriver they had not much light to see their surroundings, but Eliza's mother kept telling them the directions. “You know the house quite well,” the Doctor remarked, not outwardly implying anything, but Sherlock guessed that she was still hiding something. It was reinforced by the constant beeping of the Doctor's “timey-wimey-detector”, which went crazy every time she was near them.

On their way there it had been so much lighter, due to the big candelabra the Doctor had been carrying. Now, Sherlock could only guess the positions of the bookshelves and carpets and portraits that were decorating the ancient rooms. Portraits. Sherlock moved closer to his friend.  
“Doctor,” he whispered, hoping Mrs Thompson would not hear a lot of their conversation, since she was a few feet behind them and extremely aware of her surroundings. “When I was in the basement with Eliza, I saw a portrait. It looked exactly like Mrs Thompson.”  
The Doctor frowned. “Do you have an idea?”  
Sherlock shrugged. “Either it's an ancestor who's passed all her genes on to her. Or it's her.” The Doctor looked at him, not showing any emotion. Sherlock thought it over.  
“The picture's frame was the same on as these. That rules out every one whose not directly related to the ghost family. The house belonged to her husband's ancestors, so it can't be any of her ancestors.” Sherlock searched for encouragement in the Doctor's face, what he found was pride.   
“But it's-” he would have said impossible if he hadn't travelled to this time and place in a time machine.  
“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth,” the Doctor said, grinning and looked away from Sherlock, back to the family behind them. “Did you just invent that, or-”  
“Spoilers!”  
“Can I borrow that sentence to annoy Mycroft?”  
“Yes, it's rightfully yours!”

They crossed the corridor leading up to the great dining hall where they had had their first encounter with the ghosts. A look back to Mrs Thompson and her daughter told Sherlock all about their state. They knew were they were. They knew what was probably waiting for them behind these doors.

Mrs Thompson nodded, taking her daughter by the hand. “Open it.” The Doctor did, and with a draught of air the flame went out.  
“No,” Sherlock whispered. He searched for the Doctor in the dark, who thankfully held up the screwdriver between them.  
“Didn't you take any spare candles?” Mrs Thompson asked, panicking.  
“Well, why did you not take any, you live here?” he felt attacked and as Eliza's mother took a step forward, the loud beeping began again. Redbeard barked.  
“Shh,” Sherlock tried to calm him, but he still seemed nervous, wagging his tail and shaking a bit.   
“I'm gonna look into that cupboard, over there,” Sherlock told them, as he pulled Redbeard with him to the side.  
“What is it about you, you're making the device go all crazy! It's only meant to beep when there's immense time energy present.”

A scream interrupted the discussion the Doctor had with her and a second later a cloud of bats filled up the room. Sherlock had his eyes covered, kneeling down next to his dog, grasping his fur. Eliza, standing closest to the door, had her face covered with one arm and used the other one to pull open the door, giving the bats an open space to escape to. Redbeard barked and jumped up excitedly, trying to catch one.

“What happened?” the Doctor screamed, but Sherlock had no explanation.  
“It's just a cupboard, I don't know why there were so many!” Sherlock felt his way blindly through the shelves. “I can't find any matches or candles or anything.”  
“How did a hundred bats live in it?”  
“Well I don't know,” Sherlock tried to hold down Redbeard, who had found a lot of interest in the one lost bat flying around in the room.  
“You're the one who knows about bigger-on-the-inside-technology, so you- Redbeard.” Sherlock stopped talking and ran after his dog, which chased one bat into the dining hall.  
“Sherlock, no!” He could hear the Doctor shouting his name, but it was too late. The darkness had swallowed them both.  
“Redbeard,” Sherlock whispered, not exactly knowing why he was scared to raise his voice, while a faint voice in the back of his head was saying: Don't wake the dead.

“Redbeard,” Sherlock said again, softer. Every step he took could be his last. His last in this time and space at least. It didn't prevent him from taking it anyway. One hand stretched forward, he hoped to sense it, if something would come close to him.  
Of course it was impossible.  
If a weeping angel was there, Sherlock would be gone in a second. Then, something big brushed his legs. Sherlock let out a gasp and nearly screamed.  
But the thing at his legs wasn't made out of stone. It was fur in a very familiar shape.

“Redbeard,” Sherlock whispered and bent down. His hand grasped his dog's fur and he buried his face in it. Suddenly the room was not as cold anymore. Then, suddenly, a green beam of light interrupted the stifling darkness. Sherlock looked up without tilting his head.

The hem of a gown hovered through the air above him. Transparent and old and shining in a bright green. He wished he could have seen more of it but his view was blocked by arms and hands, fingers stretching in all directions. Sherlock looked around. There was not one or two angels, he could concentrate on. There were at least eight, and one, he realised, when he looked straight ahead, was just an inch away from his face.

He wanted to scream, but his lungs wouldn’t let him. He was paralysed entirely. Nothing wanted to work, except for his left hand which gripped his dog’s collar despairingly and his eyes, that kept staring at the stone cold face right next to his, until… it was dark again. Sherlock’s breathing got harder. He was caught in between weeping angels, no way out and no way to keep himself safe by looking at them. He was close to crying, when a second green light appeared in the room. And it was not the last.

Moments later, the room was filled with ghosts again. Ignoring the bizarre scene in the middle of the room, neither understanding nor caring about its graveness. One ghost, an old man, in tweed trousers and jacket went right through the angel in front of Sherlock, eyeing him intently. It would’ve been scary enough to have this man’s face with his empty eyes right in front of him, but the much scarier thing was that Sherlock was not able to see the angel clearly through the green fog. 

He was sure for a moment that that was it. But then, two hands grabbed his feet from behind and Sherlock was torn away from the scene. He screamed, but didn’t fight back. If those were the hands of an angel he’d be gone anyway. But they weren’t. The hands let go of his feet and grabbed him by his waist instead. It was the Doctor, of course, picking him up and hugging him, shouting a triumphal „Ha ha, gotcha!“ before letting him stand on his own two feet.  
„Thank you,“ said Sherlock shakily. Redbeard had thankfully followed his owner out of the dreadful scene and was now licking Sherlock’s hand.

The relief was visible on Sherlock’s face, but the weeping angels were still there of course. Mrs Thompson and Eliza had had their eyes fixed on them while the Doctor had pulled Sherlock out, but now, their eyes were fixed on something else. Eliza seemed distressed beyond belief, tugging her mothers sleeve and staring wide eyed in the direction of the stairs at the other side of the room. It was the man with the rifle.

The Doctor turned around when he saw what everyone was looking at. The timey-wimey-detector in his hands went nuts. The beeping wasn’t loud but it was for sure persistent. Green faces from everywhere turned to them, annoyed and curious. Something, after hundreds of silent years, was finally disturbing their quiet.

The man, and now Sherlock was sure it had to be her husband, started to make his way towards the four of them. Mrs Thompson started to panic. She turned her back, tearing her arm away from her daughter’s grip and dashed to the door.  
„He can’t hurt you!“ the Doctor screamed after her, but she was frantic. Her hands gripped the doorknob which wouldn’t turn and didn’t give in even a little bit to her touch. „He cannot hurt you!“ the Doctor said again but he sounded as if he’d needed to convince himself, rather than Mrs Thompson.  
Which would make sense after what had happened to them the first night they’d been there.   
„Doctor, that man shot you and you couldn’t speak for half an hour!“ Sherlock pointed out, clearly understanding the Lady’s distress.  
„But I didn’t die,“ the Doctor said and pointed his sonic screwdriver at the man’s ghost. Sherlock couldn’t argue with that.  
„What are you scanning? Doctor?“ he asked, as the figure got closer and closer to them.  
„Doctor! Tell me!“ Sherlock shouted at the man, who stopped, and hit his screwdriver with his hand.  
„Nothing, run!“ He shouted the last word, taking Sherlock’s hand and pulling him behind him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Eliza dragging her mother away from the door, running into a different direction with her. Sherlock tore his eyes away from them and looked ahead.  
The Doctor and he dodged ghosts every other second. For Redbeard it was fun. For Sherlock it was becoming more and more of a P.E. lesson. Mycroft would’ve been dead by now, Sherlock thought and nearly laughed out loud. They wouldn’t die, of course. Ghosts were transparent, after all. But Sherlock didn’t really feel the desire to endure the same pain the Doctor did when he was shot in the head by that man.

They reached the staircase faster than expected. Curious, Sherlock looked back and saw Eliza and her mother standing under the wide door frame. The opening to the dining hall.

“No,” the Doctor shouted unbelievingly. “No,no,no,no,no.”  
He let go of Sherlock's hand an ran to the two women.  
“What are you doing?” he asked Mrs Thompson desperately. “You are supposed to run away from them. To be safe.”  
Sherlock had only now caught up with them and couldn't see Mrs Thompson's face, but the Doctor's despair said everything he needed to know.  
“He wants me, not you,” her voice was shaking. “He's following me everywhere.”  
The Doctor looked at her very closely.  
“Not where I'm taking you.”  
She shook her head. “You don't know everything,” she said, looking at the man at the other side of the room.  
“He's not just here, he's in my head, in my dreams, he's everywhere.” She looked as if she was about to cry, which was starting to scare Sherlock, because a few hours ago, he had been sure this woman was made out of stone.  
“Then tell me everything,” the Doctor said, “I am here to help. And I don't know how to help if you won't tell me what to save you from.”  
“I shot him,” Mrs Thompson said and for the first time looked away from the man.  
“He was my husband and he was abusing us and I shot him.” The Doctor looked at her, speechless.   
“And now he's taking revenge.” The Doctor's eyes found Sherlock's and Sherlock didn't know what to do. Run away? Take Eliza and run away? The time lord's eyes were telling him something but he could not decrypt it. “It's a vengeful spirit.”

Eliza, who hadn't heard any of the things they'd talked about, was seeing the hurt in her mother's eyes and looked worried from her to the Doctor. She knew, of course, what had happened, Sherlock realised, she had been there.

Whatever her father had done to her, she was now facing his vengeful ghost. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. He couldn't understand why or how someone could be so afraid of their dad. Not everyone in his class got along with their parents, but he didn't know anyone who was downright scared of them.

The expression on Eliza's face was similar to his, when he was facing Daleks and weeping angels. Before he went travelling with the Doctor, he had never felt truly scared of anything. He had never felt so alive for that matter, either. Sherlock froze suddenly. Eliza's father was still standing on the far side of the room.

“He just came here,” Mrs Thompson kept explaining, “Without telling us why. We came along, what else can you do, when your husband sets his mind on something?” She was really crying now. Tears were running down her face.

“Then the hauntings began and I thought I was going crazy. But I didn't. He did instead.” She swiped the tears away with her shaking hand. “He was changed, after the war.”  
“Everyone is,” the Doctor said knowingly.  
“After a while we found out that all his ancestors died here. All of them,” she took a shaking breath. “We're cursed. Why else would these angels come for us?”  
“Doctor,” Sherlock interrupted the anxious silence. The time lord just looked at him, saying nothing.  
“For a furious ghost, obsessed about killing and hurting his living wife and daughter... he isn't moving a lot.” Sherlock could see, how realisation and fear reached the Doctor's eyes. They had forgotten something important. Something far more dangerous than the ghost of the abusive father and husband.

Sherlock slowly turned and his eyes wandered to the left side of his head. Instead of the room leading up to the gigantic staircase, he only saw a body made out of stone.

The angels had caught up with them.

They had been so careless. Observing the scene before them while the real horror had surrounded them from behind. “Sherlock,” the Doctor's voice was firm and controlled. Sherlock had no idea, how the time lord did that. He, himself, was panicking.

“Look at the ones to your right. And move away. I got the ones on our left.” Sherlock nodded, eyes wide open. They started to fill up with tears. “Take Eliza with you.” Sherlock took the girl's hand. He ducked beneath the angel's arm. It was not easy, keeping his eyes on the angels on his right and at the same time getting out of this disaster. He made it, still holding Eliza's hand and fell to the ground as soon as he passed the stone cold embrace of the angels.

The Doctor had also made his way around them and held his hand out for Sherlock to grasp it. “We can't stand here all night,” said Sherlock, when he got up from the ground. He was sure that he could hear the Doctor think.

If they hadn't been so tired of running and hiding from the weeping angels and the ghosts, the sight in front of them would've been beautiful and abstract. It was like a painting, so impossible it could only exist in one's imagination. Sherlock's eyes grew tired of the changing shades of green in the background, and he would've closed them, hadn't his life depended on it.

“Stay here,” the time lord said and pulled Eliza to him, showing her where to look. He grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders afterwards. “Keep your eyes fixed on them, I'll get the TARDIS.” His words were just a whisper against his ears. Sherlock nodded and felt the Doctor dash away just a second later. Of course, this was the best idea, but being left here alone made his stomach turn. His right hand stretched out in search for his dog, but reached into air as cold as ice.

“Hah,” Sherlock let out a breath, aghast, and nearly tumbled to the side. There was a wincing sound behind him and the brush of a snout against the back of his knees. Redbeard was there. But to his right, he had without a doubt touched the cold dead soul of a ghost. Goosebumps emerged on his arms when he saw the greenish figure wander around him. It was a woman, hair tight in a bun, and from the back she looked like…

“What?” Sherlock asked out loud, not really speaking to anyone, but his question was interrupted, nevertheless, by a scream from Eliza's mouth. Sherlock's head turned to his left, not intending to, but his whole body was alarmed. Eliza's eyes were wide in shock and disbelief. Everything about the angels was forgotten in this instance. Because the woman's ghost was no one less than Mrs Thompson herself.

“Eliza,” Sherlock said, looking at the girl in sorrow. The girl's eyes were fixed on the ghost of someone who was the exact copy of her mother. Sherlock's brain went from zero to one hundred. There were pieces of this puzzle he had overlooked. He needed time to find them, to connect them, but time was not given to him. Because not only did Mrs Thompson's ghost make an appearance behind the back of the living version of her, a rifle was pointed at the back of Eliza's head.  
She didn't see it, couldn't see it- her eyes were focused on her mother.

There were too many people, too much of a mess, to understand any of this. “Mrs Thompson, turn around!” Sherlock yelled. If the Doctor was here, he would've found a way to get all of them out of this situation alive. Sherlock didn't doubt it. But in Sherlock's head, the loose strings had connected themselves and if he was right, there was one person, not even the Doctor could save.

Eliza's mother did turn around, listening to the orders of a nine year old- something, she would've never done one day ago- and looked the angel opposite to her in the eye. Sherlock swallowed. He felt so sorry for Eliza next to him, who would loose her mother in less than a minute.  
“Do you know what these angels do?” Sherlock asked, not knowing what to tell her, how to tell her... Mrs Thompson shook her head. “They'll take you to another time,” Sherlock explained.

All he knew about the angels was from the Doctor and he hoped that the time lord was right. “You know what's going to happen, don't you?” he said, going through the steps in his head once again. The steps he took to come to this conclusion.  
“You found a portrait of yourself and stored it away in your basement,” Sherlock wished he could've seen her face, her reaction to all of this. No matter how severe this was, he couldn't help but feel proud of himself for figuring it all out.  
“It's not someone that looks like you. It really is you.” Mrs Thompson nodded. Her face was wet with tears and her glance wandered from the angel's statue in front of her to her daughter.

And in one heartbeat she was gone.

Eliza's face was meanwhile flooded with tears as well and Mr Thompson's rifle changed the point of direction from her to her mother's ghost. But it didn't matter any more, because the sound of the TARDIS began to fill up the room. A minute later Sherlock collapsed next to the ship's console. The Doctor had materialised around them.

“So, it was herself on the portrait,” Sherlock said. He was sitting on the stairs leading up to the TARDIS's console. To his left sat Eliza, crying silently. The Doctor had his arm around her, offering comfort.  
“There's only one way to find out,” the time lord said and stood up, leaving an upset Eliza with an inexperienced Sherlock.  
“Doctor?” Sherlock didn't know what to do. He looked back and forth from Eliza to his friend, searching for guidance.  
“You and your funny brain, tell me, when did the hauntings start?” Sherlock looked back, astonished.  
“I don't know,” he admitted.  
“Yes you do,” the Doctor said, grinning. “You see everything, you must've counted them.”  
“What?”  
“The ghosts. How many were there?” Sherlock's eyes grew wide.  
“Yes.” his mouth stayed open as the thoughts in his head went wild. “Mid 1700s, try that,” he said,   
“If we assume the age of the parents having their children decreased going back in time... The amount of ghosts... Yeah, try 1750.”

The TARDIS shook and Sherlock was sure he could feel it landing “Doctor?” The time lord turned to look Sherlock in the eye. “Are we gonna drop her off here?” The Doctor went over to Eliza and helped her up with both his hands.  
“Do you know what is happening?” he signed. Eliza shook her head in despair. The Doctor started to explain everything to her. The time travel, the angels, everything that lead up to her mother being transported back nearly 200 years. Eliza was exhausted. So exhausted, she didn't even care about the wondrous inside of the TARDIS, but hearing that her mother was alive, let her eyes light up with a little bit of life.

Sherlock rattled at the door. The handle would give in, but nothing more happened. “Doctor?” he said, as he pressed against it with his whole body.  
“It won't open.” The time lord's sad glance told him, that he had expected this.  
“Why not?” asked Sherlock as he let go of the handle. He looked confused from the Doctor to Eliza. The time lord tried the same, without any success. “Dammit. What is it, now? Huh?” he seemed to shout at the TARDIS.  
“Does it understand what you are saying?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.  
“It's a her,” the Doctor said, pretending to be hurt. Maybe he really was. “And no, she never listens. You never listen,” he shouted again and took a step back from the door, just to slam against it once more.  
Eliza looked at them, worried and sad. “I'm sorry,” the Doctor said, “Really, truly sorry.”  
“Doctor what is wrong? Why is the TARDIS not letting us outside.” The time lord breathed in, shaking his head. “It's preventing a paradox,” he said and started to walk back to the TARDIS.   
“What paradox?” Sherlock asked. “No one is gonna kill their grandfather, so what is the TARDIS so afraid of.”  
“The weeping angels feed on time energy,” the Doctor started to explain. “Travelling through time leaves scars, and this house is one very, very deep wound in the space time continuum.”  
His sad eyes wandered to the buttons on the console, deciding on where to go next. “If we alter the history of this family and his house any more, it'll be too deep to ever heal again.”  
“So no one, who is caught by the weeping angels, is ever going to be saved?”  
“It's not impossible,” the Doctor said, “Just highly improbable.” He set the TARDIS in motion again. Sherlock sat down again, feeling worse for Eliza and started to pet his faithful dog again, hoping, he would never be caught by a weeping angel.

“Do you think we broke the curse, now?” Sherlock asked, standing with one foot inside the TARDIS. They had dropped off Eliza in New York City. 1950 seemed a good year for them- both world wars were in the past now- and only good things could be in store for the young woman. With the use of the Doctor’s psychic paper they had ensured her a room in a girl’s apartment. Her two roommates were both secretaries who seemed to be very keen on helping the deaf girl find a job.

“We can’t,” the Doctor closed his eyes. “But there’s no reason for her to return to England and she knows what her future could hold. If she dies here, it’ll all be over.”  
“Wouldn’t it have been safer to drop her off on a different planet?”  
“Well, how would you like it, if I dropped you off on Raxacoricofallapatorius?”  
“You just invented that word.”  
“The girl’s been through enough,” the Doctor just said, “America will do her good. She’ll have to learn a new sign language, but otherwise…”  
“I wonder what happened in 1750. What set off the curse.”  
“Yes,” the Doctor replied, frowning.  
“We can’t go back, can we?”  
“No.”  
“Doctor,” Sherlock suddenly remembered their conversation from the year before. “Those creatures you told me about last year.” The Doctor’s eyes lit up, but in a sad way. “The ones that took your friend. It were the weeping angels, weren’t they?”  
“Yes.” Sherlock felt a cold shiver run over his skin. Just a year ago he’d thought this fate to be not worse than moving away.  
“I’m sorry,” he said. The time lord grabbed Sherlock by his shoulder and pulled him inside. It had started raining outside anyway and puddles started to form every few feet.  
“You’ve grown,” he suddenly said and eyed Sherlock from above, drawing an invisible line with his hand from Sherlock’s head to his chest.  
“Talking about growing, do you want to feel like a giant? Because I think I have the perfect place. If you’ve ever heard about Gulliver.., that guy travelled interesting places-“  
Sherlock simply accepted the Doctor’s change of topic. But as his friend sent his TARDIS into space again, he was sure he saw a wet patch under his eye.


	6. AUTUMN of 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Doctor forgot to visit Sherlock in the summer, the young detective goes on his own adventures. But it's not long until he is found by the Doctor and taken to a spaceship fighting a virus on the planet below. And the Doctor doesn't take Sherlock there for fun. He needs a detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Doctor Who or Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at the picture of the solar system in his textbook. His teacher, Ms Bennett had spent the last two classes explaining the planets and their moons, the sun and the atmosphere of the earth to them. To his left, two classmates of his were staring at their books in awe. A passion, Sherlock suspected to be fuelled by Star Wars. He leaned back in his chair, hiding behind the big girl's curly head in front of him and looked out of the window.

He could've done so many other things with this valuable time. Over the summer, Sherlock had read every single newspaper, listened to the radio daily and watched the news on television whenever they came on. There was always something going on that demanded to be solved. People missing, planes disappearing, so many cases that struck his interest. Most times he was too far away to form his own opinion. But even from afar, he could make up theories and solutions on how these people got murdered or how they disappeared. He had spent days in the library, picking out detective stories to read, when the real world didn't deliver him the challenges he needed. For that he had earned more than one surprised look from librarians.

The absolute peak of his boredom was reached when a teenage boy disappeared in a town not far from where the Holmes family lived. Sherlock had spend a week roaming the streets, listening to people's conversations, trying to pick up information. The whole adventure escalated when his parents had to come and pick him up from the police station, after he'd been found down in the sewers by inspectors, looking for clues or a body.

It wasn't his fault, even if everyone disagreed. The fault was entirely the Doctor's. The Doctor, who had apparently forgotten about him.

Sherlock had waited. He had waited six weeks and there had been no sign of the Doctor or his TARDIS. Sherlock felt depressed. So far, the Doctor had never forgotten him and never disappointed him and a small part in Sherlock's brain thought, even though he didn't want to admit it, that if he'd just do something extraordinary, something dangerous, the time lord would appear and take Sherlock with him like he always did. But he didn't.

Other children would've screamed and cried if they didn't get what they'd wanted. Sherlock went off to find corpses.

“William.” Someone poked his shoulder. “William.” Sherlock's eyes met his teacher's. He sat up in his chair. “I asked you, which moon of Jupiter is covered with ice?” “Europa.” Sherlock said and felt several heads turn his way. His classmates were used to him being smarter than everyone, but usually he wasn't as modest about it. The tone in which he'd said “Europa” was downright bored. Ms Bennett had thought that Sherlock hadn't been listening, and she was right. Sherlock hadn't been listening, but he'd been there. He'd stood on the icy surface and looked up at the biggest planet in their solar system in complete awe. Ms Bennett nodded. She wasn't satisfied, but decided to go on with her lesson until the bell rang.

Sherlock got up and walked out of the classroom before his teacher could express the desire to talk to him again. He had five minutes until his next class and as he headed to the bathroom, a familiar voice resonated through the school's hallways.

“Class dismissed. Homework? Yes, don't repeat that at home. Might blow up your home. Off you pop now.” Out of an open door walked students with their hairs standing up, soot all over their faces. The voice could only belong to one person. By its looks, the Doctor had become a substitute teacher, torturing his students with fiery experiments.

The idea was so ridiculous, Sherlock could've immediately forgiven the Doctor. He stood next to the door, the bathroom forgotten completely. He knew who he would see to his right, if he would just take one more step. Sherlock gripped the door frame. He was still angry at the Doctor for not showing up, but the moment he would see him again, Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to resist the call of adventure.

He took one step, and crashed into the time lord. “Ah!” the Doctor shouted and immediately smiled at Sherlock while the boy let out a surprised gasp.  
“There you are, finally,” the Doctor walked behind Sherlock in one step and pushed the boy forward. “Where were you? Couldn't find you for hours. Spend the morning scanning this school with my screwdriver, looking for you. Someone got suspicious- I think it was the caretaker- so I told him I was the new science teacher. A little bit of psychic paper magic and he believed me. But then I had to really teach in the end, because-”  
“Doctor, what are you doing here?” Sherlock interrupted his speech.  
“Looking for you, I told you, everything okay with your hearing?” They'd stopped in front of a door leading to an empty classroom and the Doctor started to scan Sherlock's ears with his screwdriver.  
“Yes, stop it,” Sherlock protested. The time lord raised both his arms in a yielding motion.  
“We're late, come in here,” the Doctor said and opened the door and walked inside.  
“I am late for class,” Sherlock said stubbornly waiting in the doorway.  
“You're never late, I have a time machine, what do you think it's for?” said the Doctor, while opening the TARDIS's door.

Sherlock let his backpack slide down his shoulder. He walked inside the room, kicking the door closed with his left foot.  
“You're never late? What was this summer, then?” said Sherlock.  
The Doctor turned around, one foot already inside the TARDIS. He looked to sunshine coming into the window.  
“It is summer.”  
“No, it's not,” Sherlock pouted.  
“It's September already. I was bored for six weeks, Doctor.”  
“But why does it matter if it's then or now?” the Doctor asked, honestly confused. Sherlock was quiet. He was hurt, but he didn't want to let on that he had waited every single day for the TARDIS to appear. He had jumped at any sound that bore the slightest resemblance to it.  
“I've got school,” he said, which didn't convince the Doctor. “You're cleverer than all of them, why are you still in school?”  
Sherlock started to grin and his resistance started to melt away. “I don't know either,” he shrugged.

Sherlock's backpack was lying forgotten at the entrance of the TARDIS and the 10 year old boy had taken his usual place, up at the console, together with the time lord, deciding on where to go.  
“I need your help,” the Doctor admitted and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
“Sure you do. So our trip is predestined?”  
“Yes,” the time lord said and played with a small round device, he had found on the console.  
“Are you okay with that?” Sherlock shrugged.  
“Why wouldn't I be. What have you got?”  
“We can do another trip afterwards, if you like,” the Doctor said apologetically.  
“No, no. What do you need?”  
The Doctor pressed a few buttons that let the TARDIS leave earth and the 20th century behind and reached after the screen at the top. “I need a detective.”

“I was looking for a friend - an old friend - needed some advice on something. I thought this ship was a museum. It looked exactly like the last space museum I've been on. But no, apparently this ship just had the same architect,” the Doctor filled Sherlock in, as they stepped out of the TARDIS.

“Can this happen?” Sherlock's mood went up a lot when his feet touched the foreign ground and the realisation that they were on a space ship, hit him.  
“It's not common, but it's possible. Go to the right century and you'll find a lot of mass-produced space ships. They're just like cars, or buses. Or planes, if you like. That's a good comparison.”  
“Is your TARDIS just one of many as well?” Sherlock asked and smirked.  
The Doctor looked at him hurt. “Don't listen,” he said to his ship instead of Sherlock.  
“You're one of a kind.”

“So what do you want to show me?” Sherlock asked as he followed his friend through the white and steel grey passageways. Everything looked incredibly clean. Like in a hospital. Sherlock had only been in one spaceship, other than the TARDIS, so far. And that had been the Shadow Proclamation's base.  
“There's a room. I walked in, realised I was in the completely wrong part of the ship, because it was a garbage contractor, and then-” The Doctor opened a door with his sonic screwdriver.  
“Doctor, did you just make me skip school to investigate the rubbish?” Sherlock asked him amused.

The Doctor's face was sterner than expected when he looked at his young friend. “It's not rubbish.” He opened the door and both of them walked inside. The clinical light from the passageway illuminated the room only a bit, but it was enough for them to see. The Doctor had been right, Sherlock realised. It wasn't rubbish. It was nothing. The room was completely empty.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” the Doctor went with both his hands through his hair. “It was there, just a few minutes ago.”  
“What was there? Doctor?” Sherlock looked down. The entrance where they had walked in had let them to a balcony overlooking a hall, much bigger than what Sherlock had believed a garbage contractor to look like. The floor and walls together had a hexagonal shape  
“What was in here?” Sherlock asked again, but the Doctor still didn't answer. He walked past Sherlock instead and climbed down the ladder. Sherlock followed him.  
“Okay, you're looking for something that was here before, but now it isn't. Has it occurred to you that this is a refuse skip and the rubbish has probably been dumped into space already?”  
“I'm too late,” the Doctor admitted.  
“Yeah, not the first time,” said Sherlock, “now, what was in the rubbish that you wanted to show me so desperately?” The time lord exhaled, surrendering and looked at Sherlock gloomily.  
“It wasn't what was in the rubbish. There was no rubbish. There were bodies.”

“Nice,” Sherlock's smile had spread over his whole face and it made the Doctor worry.  
“Did you just say nice to a good dozen of corpses lying in a garbage contractor?” Sherlock smiled and couldn't stop. This was what he'd needed in his summer holidays. This was better than what he'd expected from an adventure with the Doctor.  
“Thank you!” Sherlock could've screamed.  
“What?” the time lord said dumbfounded. “I leave you alone for a year and you become a psychopath.” It wasn't a question, but a statement. And a reproachful one, indeed.  
Sherlock didn't let it lessen his excitement. “I was busy this summer!” Sherlock said, “you weren't there, so I went on an adventure on my own.” The Doctor looked at Sherlock, worried, but didn't say anything.  
“So,” Sherlock continued, “What do you think they did with the bodies? Did they dump them into space? Is this maybe a graveyard of some sorts?”  
The Doctor shook his head. “No, graveyards in space look completely different,” he explained.

They walked over to the very far end of the room where a round door was located. “Why is everything so clean if this is really a garbage contractor? It doesn't make any sense,” remarked Sherlock as they reached the end of the room. The Doctor had his screwdriver in his hands, possibly contemplating whether to open the door or not. “No, let's go back.” They turned around and a high pitched siren echoed through the room. The walls began moving. Sherlock looked at the Doctor, who looked back, just as panicked. “Run,” the time lord said and both of them started dashing forward to the door on the balcony.

There was no point in running, Sherlock realised quickly, as the ground under their feet had started moving as well. “We're not getting anywhere!” Sherlock called out, taking the biggest steps his legs would allow him. The Doctor reached out to take his hand and Sherlock could see the man's eyes grow wide as he looked back. The round door at the rear was starting to open. They'd be sucked into space if they didn't find a way out immediately. Sherlock felt the air sucked out of his lungs and brain and started to wonder whether it was just his imagination. His body overreacting.  
“Stop!” he shouted and the Doctor looked at him, surprised. A thought had crossed his mind. “Stand still!” Sherlock said and sat on the ground.  
The Doctor did the same and looked at him, wondering where he'd lost all his brain cells. “Trust me,” Sherlock said, trying to convince himself more than the Doctor. He had no idea, why the time lord trusted him. The door, at the verge of opening, stopped suddenly, and the ground and walls did the same.

“How?” the Doctor breathed and looked surprised at Sherlock. The boy grinned. “Just guessed it. The room was empty. What garbage is here to contract?”  
“You'll get yourself killed, basing decisions on guesses like that?” the Doctor said exasperated.  
Sherlock laughed. “There must've been another reason, why it started working. I'm guessing motion detectors.” The Doctor looked at him with big eyes.  
“After all, they need to get rid of weirdly behaving rubbish somehow.”  
At this, the time lord's face was gleaming with a smile from one side to the other.  
“Ha ha. You are brilliant!” He raised his screwdriver to one of the sensors on the angular ceiling above them. Sparks flew.  
“The person in charge of this thing will be very grateful,” Sherlock said sarcastically as the Doctor broke another motion sensor.  
“Well, they tried to kill us.” He stood up and reached out a hand to Sherlock. “What do you want to do now?” he asked the time lord as they ran back to the entrance. “Be on the lookout for mass murderers for one thing-”  
“And?”  
“Try not to be killed.”

The place, as they discovered very quickly, was somewhat of a hospital. Sherlock had the feeling from the beginning, judging from the clean, white passageways and amount of hand sanitisers that were attached to the walls. Little holes, above and below them, seemed to serve as air conditioning.

“There's no one here, Doctor,” Sherlock said after thirty minutes of walking. They had checked out four floors of the station already, but hadn't met a single living, breathing thing. This might have worried some others, but for Sherlock it felt like his birthday. A space station containing nothing but dead bodies and no one alive to put them where they had been found. Had the Doctor been mistaken? Did maybe all people go to this particular place to die?

“Ah!” the time lord suddenly exclaimed and sprinted forward.  
“What?” Sherlock was confused for a second until he saw a turquoise shining screen at the end of the passageway.  
Sherlock tried to catch up with the Doctor. The time lord immediately took out his screwdriver and scanned the device, looking for maps of the station. Sherlock went with his index finger over the surface, pleasantly surprised to see it give in to his touch.  
“Doctor,” Sherlock said and clicked his way through the files until he found a symbol that looked like a map.  
“Ah!” the Doctor put his screwdriver away and eyed the detailed site map. “Well this explains a lot,” he said as found the one of the whole station. “We're in the completely wrong part of the ship.”

He turned to his right, looking at a door that was only a few feet away. With a quick move he pointed the screwdriver at the door and as the familiar bright green light appeared, the doors opened.

The new part of the station they'd discovered felt like a very busy office. People in white lab coats, safety goggles on their heads and rubber gloves that covered their hands kept running from one room to another. Right ahead, there seemed to be the entrance to the biggest room.

Sherlock couldn't see everything from where he stood and took a few steps closer. There were white tables containing microscopes and test tubes, cylinders and flasks and bunsen burners and many other devices, Sherlock knew hadn't been invented on earth yet. At least not in the 20th century.

But the most magnificent view was the one behind the tables. A window, stretching over the whole width of the room, allowed them to see a planet, not unlike earth, but redder, floating above them.

Sherlock's admiration for the reddish planet wore down the second he saw a woman in a lab coat pointing at them while talking to her colleague. Sherlock looked at the Doctor who pulled the psychic paper out of his pocket.  
“Sir, may I ask you what you are doing here?” the second woman, blond hair and exceptionally pointy ears, looked at them in question.  
“Mr John Smith, garbage inspection,” the Doctor said steadfast, “this is my apprentice, Master-”  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said and reached out for a handshake.  
The blond scientist shook it, obviously taken by surprise. The Doctor seemed baffled himself and shot Sherlock an astounded look.  
“For a garbage inspector, you are wearing uncommonly clean clothes,” she raised an eyebrow and  
Sherlock cursed the Doctor for his unconsidered exclamation.  
“According to your ID you are doing a general inspection. We had one just last week.” The Doctor tried to hide his discomfort and looked around. So did Sherlock, and his eyes were soon stuck on a boy, probably Mycroft's age, in a school uniform not very different from his.  
“Sorry Madam, I'm the new intern. I was told to come and see the place today. I'm so sorry for my uncle, he has a very specific kind of humour and I can assure you, no one in our family finds it amusing,” Sherlock said and pouted.  
The Doctor looked back at him resentfully. “Oh, in that case, you can follow me,” she said and walked out of the room and to the left.  
“We expected you tomorrow, but I must've forgotten to update my schedule,” she seemed softer than before and Sherlock chuckled at how easy it had been to fit in.  
“I'm Professor Goriac,” she said and held her ID against a scanner. The door opened. “I'll leave you to it. If you need me afterwards, I'm in the lab,” she nodded inside and gave Sherlock a weak smile before she left. He looked at the Doctor.  
“Garbage inspection?” he mouthed and earned another resentful glance from his friend.

The talk with the lab’s superior was over quickly. At least for Sherlock. He had quickly gotten his instructions and a list of materials he was supposed to collect. A few moments later, he went off to the supply chamber to collect what he’d need for his “internship”.

The Doctor didn’t have such an easy time. After only 2 minutes he had started to check every screen in the room to makes sure the surveillance was working alright- understandable, after the incident in the garbage contractor- and then criticised the ship’s surveillance system. Surprisingly, the man let them take a look at it, probably because he was too shocked himself and Sherlock had felt his stomach turn upside down at the view of human corpses on the ground. It was a lot worse than seeing mummies or ghosts. Those were people that meant something to someone. And they had been piled up in an empty room in a spaceship. Untouched. Whatever made their life stop, it had to be a poison.

After that, he’d been dismissed.

Sherlock was now running down the passageway to the said room that was supposed to contain the lab equipment he needed. He kicked the door open and already heard an alarm go off. Sherlock exhaled. Of course his new superior must've taken some measures and it made him feel a little uneasy to not be there and help the Doctor, who had to get out of this mess on his own.

He reached after the smallest lab coat he could find and loaded safety goggles, notebooks and gloves into a box. He'd have to get the stuff he forgot, if there was something, later. He ran out again, slamming the door loudly, and was met by dozens of hurrying men and women in white coats. They were all headed away from the the laboratory and Sherlock accompanied them, by hurrying in the same pace and the others, watching their faces intently. Not one of them seemed to have a clue what was going on.

“You’re new?” a raspy voice asked behind him. Sherlock turned around, to see a boy, maybe Mycroft's age, walking right behind him.  
“Yeah, just arrived,” Sherlock said, dreading the unforeseeable small talk.  
“What school are you going to that sends 9 year olds off to a virus fighting military base?” Sherlock grimaced at the wrong guess of his age, but let it slide, hoping he would get more information out of the boy.  
“The kind of school that lets clever students skip 3 grades.”

Sherlock invented a new life for himself out of the blue. The boy took a step forward so he was walking besides Sherlock. He was silent for a moment, obviously surprised by the little boy's ready wit.  
“I'm Marius.”  
“I'm Sherlock.”  
“Inventive parents, huh?” Marius teased, but Sherlock wouldn't let it bother him.  
“Oh, much more imagination was used while naming my brother Mycroft,” he said and tried to catch a glimpse of the room they were just entering. Ignoring Marius's confused face.  
“What? Microsoft?”

The room they were in looked like a school's lunch room without the tables. Chairs weren't there either, and so the whole group of scientists gathered in the middle, spreading out up against the walls, leaving room for someone to stand in the front. Or so it seemed. And he was right, the manager's assistant came in to the room, followed by two soldiers and the scientist Sherlock had met in the very beginning.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we've called you here together in one room because it has come to our knowledge that there has been a security breach. The garbage contractor in the unused left wing of DW-63 has been used for unauthorised disposal.”

The confusion and ridicule was evident in the movement of all people. Sherlock didn't need to do more than just look at the backs of their heads, tilting and leaning back, looking at the person standing next to them, laughing.

“I know this sounds ridiculous, but the bodies disposed were not supposed to be there.” Some already stiffened at the use of the word body, but overall the mood still seemed to be light.  
“We ask for your understanding, since we will heighten the surveillance from now on and you will all have to be searched and interrogated.”

An uneasy noise spread among the people present.

“We are really sorry, but these measures have to be taken.” Sherlock hadn't realised, that he, too, had been standing quite frozen for some seconds.

“You okay?” Marius next to him asked.  
“I wonder what forbidden space trash they have been throwing out into our solar system this time. Can you believe he said bodies? Like, human bodies?” Sherlock didn't answer. He'd spotted the Doctor standing at the other side of the room.  
“I gotta go,” he said and walked as fast as he could away from the annoying boy.

“Doctor,” Sherlock said under his breath.  
“You love coming to conclusions, but let me come to one this time.”  
“What have you got?”  
“The ship is new. They have new technologies, but are not fully equipped.”  
“They launched this before they could afford the whole budget?” Sherlock tried to make sense out of it, catching up quickly with the time lord's thought process.  
“Very good!” the Doctor said and smiled.  
“They have no budget to afford staff for surveillance.”  
“Or-”  
“The staff's dead and disposed”

The Doctor's head turned around quicker then ever. Eyes big and scared.  
“You are ten years old. You shouldn't get ideas like that.”  
“Well, I'm travelling with you,” Sherlock said, defensively. “You wanted me on this. Are you really surprised?”  
The time lord's face was showing emotions that confused Sherlock for a moment. He seemed furious for a second and then relaxed, going with his hand through his hair.  
“Let's get you into that lab,” he suddenly said, his face still tense, and shoved Sherlock forward, into the crowd of people leaving the room.

“Why exactly do you need me in this lab?” asked Sherlock as he walked to the laboratory with the Doctor.  
“Why don't you just infiltrate it yourself?”  
“Because you're gonna like it better than me. I'm doing you a favour, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock didn't respond. He still had the box of lab equipment in his hand, which made his hands grow tired. He shifted the box from one side to the other, tucking it between torso and elbow.

“You stopped protesting,” the Doctor said and looked at his young friend.  
“About what?”  
“About your name,” the time lord raised his eyebrows, shooting Sherlock a glowing grin.  
“I didn't call you William once and you didn't protest even a single time.” Sherlock smiled, not returning the Doctor's look. “I'm starting to like it.” “Oh, it fits you very well.”

They had reached the doors to the lab and Sherlock's eyes went wide once more at the sight of devices he had never seen in his life. He put his equipment down on an empty desk and looked around in awe. Professor Goriac, who they had met in the beginning, walked over, clearly amused by Sherlock's big eyes. “So, I see you like it here,” she said and smiled. The smile was tired but honest. “Let me show you around.”

“You've probably been asked by some people already what you are doing here,” she said, but it didn't sound reproachful. “And they are right. This station, this ship, this laboratory is not a common place to send someone for an internship.”  
“You've got another intern here,” Sherlock remarked.  
“Oh, so you've met Marius?”  
“Briefly.”  
“He's an exception. He got a scholarship for every existing medical or scientific institution and he chose this place. I'm not the only one who thinks he's mad. With his intellect he could've chosen every other place in the galaxy. Institutions that could've offered him way more than what we do.”

“What's wrong with this place?” Sherlock asked.  
“It's doomed. In every sense of the word.” Sherlock saw the Doctor opening his mouth and hit him with his foot.  
“We are not healing the living, Master Holmes, we are torturing the dying.” Sherlock had to smile at the choice of the Professor's words. She had obviously said them before, going by their sound, maybe stole them from someone, Sherlock thought, since that was the first time she said something dramatic, even poetic, opposed to her clear and analytical explanations from before.  
“There is no way to make any career in here, if that's what you're hoping to achieve.”

“The DW-63 station was put in use for only one purpose. When the first solar waves started hitting the planet below mutations started to appear in people's genetics,” she stopped, suddenly, to eye the Doctor and Sherlock intently.  
“You are not from there are you?” Both of them shook their heads strongly. Maybe a little too strong, causing her to rest her glance a few suspicious seconds longer on the two of them.

“What kind of mutations?” the Doctor broke the silence. “Let me show you,” the Professor said dryly. She went over the surface of the desk with two fingers, enabling a screen to appear.

“This is, why everyone's so wary about the fact that someone sent a boy your age to exactly this place,” she said and looked first at Sherlock and then to the Doctor as if to make sure that he gave his permission for his “nephew” to see the horrors to come. The time lord shot Sherlock a cautious look and then nodded.

Professor Goriac's finger touched the screen and on came pictures that even made the 900 year old time lord flinch. Sherlock blinked hard, trying to maintain a poker face. He wasn't going to let the adults know, how badly this made him feel.

He felt sick.

He knew that the thing on the screen was supposed to be a person. But it was barely recognisable as one. Its face had no eyes any more. Just slits. The mouth on the contrary was huge, Sherlock couldn't help thinking that probably another head could fit in there. It had only one arm left and that arm was enormous as well. The part of its body where the other arm should be connected was covered with something that looked like mould.

The Professor started to go through more pictures. More deformed heads and bodies. Missing toes and four armed people. Sherlock felt more and more dizzy, but didn't know where the feeling came from, when suddenly the Doctor grabbed the Professor's hand, keeping her from swiping to more pictures. He grabbed his little friend by the shoulders and turned him around, bending down, to be on Sherlock's height.

“Breathe,” he said and Sherlock realised only now that he had actually been holding his breath for probably more than two minutes. “Are you okay?” the Doctor's voice was soft and his eyes were more scared than Sherlock had ever remembered them being. He nodded. “My mouth feels dry,” he coaxed. The Professor, embarrassed by what she had obviously done to a little child, rushed away to get a jug of water.

“Say something the next time...” the Doctor said, nervously. “You are not here to be emotionally destroyed. I brought you here to help me. I brought you here to show you a new world and a space station- I didn't expect this to happen.” The distress was clearly visible in the time lord's eyes. “We're going,” he leaned away from the table, grabbing Sherlock by his shoulders.  
“No,” he said. The Doctor closed his eyes violently.  
“Yes, we're going.”  
“No, I don't want to go,” Sherlock said once more.  
“You are clearly not okay,” the Doctor said, “you nearly fainted.”

Sherlock blushed, embarrassed by what had just happened. “Yeah, but I didn't. I want to stay, I want to find out more. I'm not too young for this.” The Doctor clenched his fists. “I am 900 and I got sick from looking at those pictures,” the time lord tried to convince his friend. But Sherlock was too hurt by how the Doctor had obviously pointed out his weakness, to realise that it was no criticism.

“Okay,” he finally gave in. “But you're not gonna work with any of these infected people,” the Doctor said, desperately trying to compromise before the Professor returned.  
“And you're not gonna work with bodies, or bodyparts or…”  
“Fine,” Sherlock said with clenched teeth and turned to accept the bottle of water Professor Goriac had arrived with.  
“Good, I think it's better to concentrate on the scientific work here.”

She started walking them through not only the lab, but through the entire station. “It took the government months to realise we had to move our medical and scientific practises outside of the planet to succeed. And to be honest, we still haven't succeeded,” she said, defeat audible in her voice. “But you probably know about that, it's been all over the news in the whole galaxy.”

Sherlock looked at the Doctor and could see that he too hoped that she wouldn't ask them more about that. Thankfully, she didn't. She walked them through the hospital wing, which didn't, to Sherlock's and the Doctor's delight, contain any mutated living beings.

“Our routine consists of bringing people up here. Infected people, whose genes haven't mutated yet. We take samples of blood and analyse it, trying to get the virus to mutate the way we want it to. To find an antidote or anything, really, that might help people down there.” She pointed at the empty beds.  
“Where are they, then?” asked Sherlock confused.  
“Back down, again. We can't afford having them here all the time. They're infected. They're going to die, and when they stay up here, we're going to die, and then we'll have no one left to find a cure.”

“You can't be serious,” the Doctor said, and Sherlock knew she'd hit a very vulnerable nerve.  
“It's live or die, Doctor. Some situations require to be handled like this,” the Professor said harshly. “Handled how? Inhumanly?” The two of them stared each other down, obviously despising the opinion the other one held.  
“You have a whole station available and you're only occupying one half of it, why?” Sherlock broke the silence. “You could keep them in the other half of the station. Why do you have it, anyway, if it's empty?” Sherlock interrupted their scornful staring.

“We don't have the staff,” the Professor replied and looked away from the Doctor. “Apparently you haven't read the news,” there was judgement in her voice. “All the scientists and doctors and professors of this planet are on this ship right now. We've got staff from other planets as well, but sometimes they refuse to help, because they're scared. All people that aren't infected, that are of any use are together in this place. For the rest of them, there's no hope.”

They went on like this. The Doctor mostly appalled by the stories she told them, Sherlock mostly fascinated. There was a morgue as well, of course, made for people that wouldn't survive the experiments they did on them. Old people usually, children as well. The lower levels of the DW-63 were occupied by the military. For them they had secured a place on this ship as well. Funny, how people's priorities worked. But then again, they hadn't passed any quarters that were reserved for the rich and famous. Probably, because they'd all died.

The view over the planet Lupina was breathtaking. The sun it orbited had already turned into a red giant and the planet was still just far enough away, to not be engulfed by it. Red waves of gas rose up and down from the fiery ball. Rays of light hitting the planet constantly.  
“Is this what it's going to be like, on Earth, Doctor?” Sherlock asked quietly, not wanting to raise the Professor's suspicion.  
“No, not entirely,” the time lord bent down to whisper in Sherlock's ear.  
“Humanity will no longer be living on your planet, when that happens.”

It was a rare view for Sherlock to experience. He'd been on a different planet and on two time travels, but the Doctor took him only rarely on an actual space travel. Only once, when he was eight, the two of them had gone on a tour around Sherlock's solar system, leaving him astonished at the vast space between the planets and the monstrosity of their own sun.

They reached the laboratory again at the end of their journey.  
“Here we are,” the Professor said, arriving at the desk where they'd started.  
“I'm gonna leave you with Marius now,” she said nodding into the tall boy's direction.  
“All we do here is extracting different cells from the blood of the infected- don't worry, as long as you're wearing gloves, you won't get infected- and then try to develop serums that might heal them. As I said before, we haven't succeeded yet.” Sherlock nodded.  
“You may say good bye to your uncle now, because you'll have to leave,” she directed this to the Doctor now, derogatively.

“Oh, there you are,” Marius said in thought, when Sherlock approached him. The first time they started talking, the 17 year old had been a lot more talkative. Now, he was only staring into his microscope, which Sherlock thought was only a distraction.  
He wasn't really looking. The lens wasn't even adjusted correctly.  
“Can I help you with anything?” Sherlock asked as polite as he could, trying to keep up with the “new kid at school” image.  
“No, not at the moment.” Marius still stared into the microscope.  
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked again, but his mind was set on different things as well. People were called out in groups and taken away. It must've been the interrogation, they'd been waiting for to happen.  
“I could clean the lenses of your microscope,” Sherlock offered again, evidently more annoyed.

“FOR YOURS AND EVERYONE'S SAFETY ON BOARD, WE MUST ASK YOU TO NOT DISPOSE ANY GARBAGE IN ANY PART OF THE SHIP. IF THE SITUATION CHANGES, WE WILL INFORM YOU IMMEDIATELY.” A loud voice came out of a speaker.

Marius's eyes, who had been looking into the microscope for the last 5 minutes straight, looked up at the ceiling, were the piercing sound was coming from. He puffed.  
“You know, I don't think cleaning the lenses will help, because the microscope isn't even adjusted in the right way.” This made the boy look up. Blankly at first. And then, he frowned.  
“What makes you think so?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavily.

“You're doing a terrible job of faking work,” Sherlock said. He'd done that at school too many times. “The distance between lens and glass is way too big, plus, you're not being talkative enough, judging on how you spoke to me earlier, you're the chatty kind. That means, you don't want to get distracted. But since you're not really examining anything, you're concentrated on something else. Is it the interrogations?”

Marius's lips curled into a smile.

“You're clever.”  
“I've heard.”  
“I'm not used to... teach people. I'm here to learn myself,” Marius said.  
“You don't want me to get more attention than you do.” Sherlock suddenly realised. Marius seemed to be visibly uncomfortable in his skin and exhaled heavily, “I just wasn't aware, that I would be your tutor, that's all.”

“I can just sit here quietly and do nothing,” Sherlock said and put on the most innocent face.  
“Well, then you're not gonna learn anything, are you?” he said and walked over to another table that was now awfully empty.  
“These test tubes are what we work on,” Marius explained.  
“We extract the blood of the infected and run tests on it. Not only the blood, all kinds of bodily fluids, hair and skin sometimes. We tried to extract the virus from it, either we don't succeed or we do, but the virus, not matter how small, stays incredibly contagious.”

“How do you know that?” Sherlock said, although he already knew the answer. Marius scrunched his nose.  
“They try it out. Every now and then. Those people usually die.” He went silent after that, looking cautiously from Sherlock to the sample of test tubes in his hands. They all had different colours.

“Risky.” Sherlock said, but his mind was screaming something else at him.  
“That's what you have a morgue for.”  
“Exactly.”  
“Do you send the bodies down to their families, or... do you not want to burden them with the looks of their... mutations?” Sherlock chose his words carefully, hoping Marius would not really understand what he was actually asking.  
“They don't show mutations. But no, we usually take people up here, who have no one left. They're all volunteers.” There was a tingling feeling in Sherlock's gut and his skin had goosebumps all over. This had been easier than expected. He tried to hide the inevitable smile that was trying to spread all over his face by asking more questions.

“What do these colours mean?” he pointed at the test tubes. “We tried to change the genetic skeleton of the virus. Took some of its characteristics away and added some, to see how they would react with the infected body.”  
“And?”  
“Nothing worked so far. The blue one, for example-”

A loud alarm sounded through the lab.

The few scientists present reacted immediately. One started screaming into the intercom at the door, taking orders from a superior. Two others grabbed test tubes from all over, gathering all experiments that made sense to them and another one came over to Sherlock and Marius.

“There's been another solar flare,” the sadness on the man's face was severe. “There is staff of ours down there on the planet. They'll be coming up, probably infected, but we don't know. We need to brace ourselves for everything.” He looked at Marius more closely than Sherlock, understandably, since the boy had been working here for a longer time.

“The military will be restricting the number of people that are sent up here, but we have to be prepared for a flooding of the hospital, nevertheless. Get those samples of the red serums, we tried out yesterday and bring them to the hospital,” the scientist said and pointed at a table behind them. Marius nodded and turned on his heel as the man went back to his colleagues. Sherlock ran after him, grabbing some of the said tubes as well. Without communicating in any way, Marius ran off, leaving Sherlock to follow him through the unfamiliar passageways of the ship.

It wasn't really a surprise to Sherlock when Marius didn't go to the hospital at all, but he had to admit to himself that he admired the boy's attitude. They must've been far away and several floors down from the hospital, when Marius, several feet ahead of Sherlock, reached a locked door. Sherlock could see his right hand flying over the keyboard, up and down and to the right. The steps he took while running grew bigger, but by the time he arrived, the door was locked again. Sherlock threw the tubes filled with red liquid at the door, angrily, leaving an ugly stain on the glass.

This was the most unsatisfying adventure he'd ever had with the Doctor. At first, the man didn't show up, then he left him alone amongst annoying Professors and interns and now he'd found the only possible suspect in less than five minutes. Sherlock kicked the remains of the broken glass against the door and pondered whether he should feel guilty of destroying what could be hope for thousands of dying people on the planet below them. He didn't. They try it out. They. Marius was clever, no doubt, but he' hadn't watched his talk. The words had escaped his lips faster than he could control. Why suddenly differentiate himself from the rest? Sherlock knew exactly who was responsible for the bodies in the garbage contractor.

This really hadn't been much of a challenge. Even the Doctor could've solved it, if he hadn't been so busy overlooking every single important detail.

It was so easy, Sherlock didn't understand how not every one on this station could've seen it. But then, they hadn’t known of the bodies.

He started inspecting the numbers on the keyboard. There were oily patches on some of the numbers. He tried the most obvious combination, from what Marius's hand movements had shown. Wrong. Sherlock cursed.

There was one thing he didn't understand. Why was the boy so keen on killing people off. Why was he even here? Professor Goriac had mentioned that he could've gone to any university, could've gotten any job he wanted. Why invest one’s talent on a case like this? What profit could he possibly draw from it?

The next obvious combination was wrong, too, and Sherlock became more nervous. There was one more combination left, judging from what he'd seen the boy do and Sherlock prayed, that this would be the one. It was. Exhaling, Sherlock stepped through and was instantaneously disappointed.

Whatever secret lab or hospital wing or even military base he had expected, it was not there. There was simply a long passageway with doors every few feet. Marius could be everywhere. Sherlock started to run. There were several red puddles on the floor, ensuring Sherlock that Marius had been running and that he had passed these doors on the way to wherever he was now.

The puddles stopped when Sherlock turned to the left at the end of the hallway. There were no names on the doors, just numbers and Sherlock tried one after the other. They were all locked, except one. One, that lead him directly into a very untidy, very school-boyish room.

There was a bunk bed, clothes and technical devices Sherlock had never seen before. There were windows that didn't show space, but a projected landscape. In the boy's case an old village with thatched roofs. He had expected to see more books, but the shelves only contained loose sheets of paper with scribbled words in a handwriting Sherlock couldn't decipher. Nothing in this room could possibly let on that the boy living here was a mass murderer.  
Where was he?  
The red test tubes from the lab were on the shelf, so he must've been here. Or still was. Sherlock was so certain Marius was guilty, that he started to look closely at every single greyish metal floorboard, in case it might be loose. He tapped them with his feet and nearly broke his fingernails, trying to raise them off the floor. He could've cried out of despair when none of them moved and the last one he'd tried to tear off, set him flying backwards with his head against the desk. He heard something massive falling down and covered his head with his hands. His back hurt and so did his head, but nothing had landed on it.

Sherlock carefully touched the spot where his skull had collided with the desktop. He wasn't bleeding. Relieved, he stood up and looked behind. “Oh, brilliant,” he whispered to himself, as a giant hole was gaping from the wall. There had been a loose board, there always is. But in this case, it didn't lead into a secret hideout in a secret basement. Sherlock climbed up the desk. It lead into nowhere.

A gap, wide enough for an adult to climb through, reached from high above to the deepest low. It was a jungle of cables and pipes and one single ladder leading up and down. There was only darkness when Sherlock looked up. But as he bent down his head, he could see an orange light coming through a small crack. He swallowed and took a deep breath as the climbed into the skeleton that make up the ship, knowing that on the other side was a teen aged mass murderer.

Sherlock’s arms were shaking as he took one step after another down inside the ship. At least, since he was so small, he didn't need to worry about hitting his head or getting stuck. His view kept wandering down to the menacing orange light. Sherlock hesitated only for a second when he reached the window to the secret room.

It was going in or leaving now, before someone came out. And there was no way Sherlock would go back now. He pushed himself away from the ladder and kicked the loose board in. His eyes were momentarily blinded by the orange light, even if it wasn't bright. The room was empty. Sherlock let go and jumped in. Standing up from the uncomfortable landing, his glance fell on a high shelf to his left. Decorated with jars filled with severed heads of every size and hands, fingers, toes and hairs and rags of skin, it wasn't even the strangest sight in this room. In this secret lab of a kind, that, which was clear to Sherlock, no one could know of.

Appalled and yet fascinated, he took a closer look at the jars. They had different colours, which could've been due to tinted glass, or possibly because of chemicals that had been injected, in the hope of extracting something valuable from it. Like an antidote. Sherlock looked around. We run tests on blood and hair and skin, Marius had said earlier. It seemed like the genius boy had been bored. The small hairs on the back of his head stood up straight. If the boy hadn't turned into a mass murderer, he might have admired him.  
You do admire him, a clear voice in his head said.  
If Sherlock had turned to his right, he would've seen a giant set of tubes, connected, boiling ingredients, serums, fluids, over somewhat of a fire, pumping the remains of severed heads through its tubes. But Sherlock didn't get that far. The turn of his head was interrupted by a figure standing just feet away from him, half covered by dried rags of skin clipped to a threat stretching from one side to the other like a clothes line. He was wearing a gas mask.

“Marius,” Sherlock said confidently, ignoring every cell in his body that told him to run in the opposite direction. Behind him, vials of different colours, unrecognisable in the orange light, were covering the wall, displayed on thin shelves. Marius took off his mask.  
“You really shouldn't have followed me,” he said annoyed.  
“What are these vials for?”  
Sherlock ignored his remark. “You experiment on your own.”  
It was a statement, not a question.  
“Don't you? All these heads and hands... You needed bodies. Human bodies. Infected bodies. Weak. But not beyond saving. You give them the serum. And then they die. And you just dispose them. This lab here, this is the other part of the ship, isn't it?”  
Sherlock looked around.  
“The uninhabited one? It's the perfect playground and the perfect graveyard.”

Sherlock just kept standing there and let the words sink in. Marius had his lip curled, his guarded posture betraying his discomfort. He was thinking fast, trying to get out of the situation and Sherlock could've smiled in triumph.  
“I am helping them,” he finally said and put the mask on a table on his left.  
“By killing hundreds of people?” Sherlock asked and raised an eyebrow.  
“It wasn't hundreds, it was a few dozen,”  
“You thought you were cleverer than them,” Sherlock stated and smiled, “you're not. You did a really poor job of covering all this up,” Sherlock pointed to the heads in the jars.  
“Everything was okay, until you showed up,” Marius said darkly and took a step towards Sherlock.  
“Yes,” he said proudly and smile grew wider.  
“Why are you smiling?” the boy's face was torn between anger and despair.  
“Do you want to end up like those heads on the shelve?” his voice was weaker than ever, when he said it.

Sherlock tried his best not to look intimidated. The boy had killed dozens of people. People who had been at the brink of death, without any reasonable chance of survival. Sherlock's hands were looking for a place to grasp. He tried to ignore the urge. He didn't want Marius to even have the slightest idea, that he was scared.

“You're not.”  
“Not what?”  
“You won't kill me,” Sherlock said, “you want recognition. If they find out you killed an innocent boy, all this work will have been for nothing. If you let me live, I'll help you, you'll be the hero and I'll get to live,” Sherlock said, trying to talk around the very obvious fact, that if Marius just killed him now, he wouldn't have to worry about Sherlock being around to spill the beans later.

The boy's face was blank. Sherlock couldn't decipher if he was thinking or not. He clenched his teeth. Regardless of how reckless he'd been with the bodies, Marius wasn't stupid. “Good plan,” he said, looked at Sherlock and nodded. “Let's get to work.”

They had each a tray of 15 vials in their hands as they walked back to the hospital. Sherlock, a few feet behind Marius, wore an expression of complete and utter contempt on his face. The last time he'd looked like this, was when his Uncle Rudy had asked him if he already knew how to spell his name. He'd been six.

In the last 30 minutes this case went from boring to frustrating. He had no clue what Marius’s plan was, and it made him nervous.  
“You go left,” he suddenly said, when they reached the next door. Sherlock stopped.  
“Why?”  
“Because there's more than one hospital wing on this ship, to your left are sick people as well. Do you want to help, or not?” Marius walked over to the door ahead. “6 – 4 – 2 – 1. That's the code to your door. See you in a bit.”  
He was gone, before Sherlock could decide on whether to run after him or not.

His fingers flew over the keyboard and the door opened, revealing another passageway, shorter than the others. Several warning signs that meant nothing to Sherlock were drawn on the door. He only recognised one, the one for Biohazard. Sherlock turned around. He had seen none of the signs on the doors of the hospital wing before. There was no way, this was one. Sherlock typed in the code again, but a loud beeping rang out and the screen turned red. Sherlock cursed.

There was no way, that there was a different code on the inside. Someone must've changed it from the outside. He kicked the door and swore immediately at the pain in his right toes. His left hand found a grip in his hair. He still had the vials in his right one, pressed to his body. Defeated, he walked to he door in front of him. No code was required. No window was present. His fingers hovered briefly over the touch screen before he pressed the button to open.

The first impression Sherlock got from the room, was that it looked like hell. Red thick fog filled it from top to bottom. When he stretched out his arm it vanished in nothingness. Sherlock held his breath and took slow steps that found a sudden end by running into a wall of glass. The fog was thinner here, barely existent. He pressed his face against it in hope to see something, but the darkness behind it only implied the outlines of tables and chairs.

Sherlock couldn't hold his breath any more and exhaled rapidly, his head still pressed against the glass. There was no way he was taking any breath in the dead centre of hell. The breaths he took became slower and Sherlock pushed himself away from the glass, his glance falling to the room again. But now, someone was standing there.

He was not alone in here.

Sherlock pinched his eyes together in order so see better through the clouds of redness. And the sight before him made him slam back into the glass again. It had a head and arms and legs, so one could describe it as a human being. But apart from that, nothing human was left. A face, thoroughly destroyed with mismatched eyes, one on the forehead, one where the right cheek was supposed to be, was looking at him. The mouth was not big but the lower jaw was barely attached to the rest of the head and so it kept hanging open, showing rotten teeth. Its body was small and weak but the hands were enormous and weighed it down, making a hunchback out of the victim.

Every neuron in Sherlock's brain wanted to scream, but the information got lost on the way to his lungs. A sound on the floor let him know that he had let go of the vials. But he didn't care. The person in front of him started to limp forward. Why were they keeping it here? If Sherlock had been in charge of the station he'd have abandoned the dying person already. His right hand still on the glass, he moved forward. If he couldn't find another door, he would break the glass. Fists forward, Sherlock swore to himself, ignoring the voice in his head that told him that not even a grown man could break it and he was just a little boy, get out or die trying.

His steps were getting bigger as the deformed person came closer. It was a man, Sherlock realised, when he got a closer look at the figure. He wanted to look away, the sight was horrid, but he couldn't. And just like that, his hands found a door frame. He tore his eyes away from the man, fingers fumbling the switches and buttons that were available. The screen attached to it was out of order and Sherlock groaned as one try after another turned out to be a failure. He tried all of them once more and when his fingers passed one in the middle, the lights went out. Sherlock screamed and hit the door with both hands. Hot tears were running down on his face and Sherlock gave up, covering his face with his hands, spreading his tears all over his face. He turned his back to the door, leaning against screen that wasn't working and-

Light went on again. For a millisecond, Sherlock thought he was lucky. Then, a stench, worse than every rubbish collection in the world, hit his nostrils. The man's face was in front of him, inches away. Big. Deformed. Two eyes in two different parts of the face staring at him, blood red. Pores as big as peas. Mould growing around a bleeding ear.

Sherlock screamed louder than he had ever screamed in his life.

The man's giant hand, reached out and before it got to touch a hair on Sherlock's head, the boy felt someone grab his jacket from behind, and he was pulled away from the monster in front of him.

The door was closed. Safe and soundly Sherlock sat on the ground, legs crossed, still covering his face with his hands. Tears were still falling. He couldn't stop them. But this time, they were tears of relief rather than fear and panic. So he let them, sitting on the ground, with arms around him. He hadn't opened his eyes, in fear that the creature would still be there, but he knew that the arms belonged to the Doctor.

“Doctor, we should go,” said another familiar voice. Professor Goriac was also there with them. “Give him a minute,” the Doctor said, scolding. Sherlock opened his eyes. The door was in front of him. A turquoise glowing screen, intact, next to it. To its left, Sherlock could see the curved glass wall, that was more like a window. From here, the room looked smaller, less threatening. But Sherlock couldn't bear, looking at the red mass behind the glass any more. He buried his face in the Doctor's shoulder instead. “I know that I am late,” there was a whisper next to his ear, “I am late now and I have been late before. But trust me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I will never be too late.”

Sherlock clung to the Doctor's arm as the time lord pulled him to his feet again. He looked at his friend and nodded, signalising that he was fine and ready to move again. The time lord's eyes shone proudly and his face wore a feeble smile now. “What?” Sherlock asked weakly. “You're still standing,” the Doctor said and looked at Sherlock intently, before turning around to walk into the much more friendly looking white hallway ahead of them.

The walk back to the lab was long and so was the explanation, Sherlock needed to give the Professor. He told her everything, apart from that he was not really an intern, from the point when she had left him with Marius up to how he got into the red room and ultimately – back to them. He tried talking around the part where it would be clear that he and the Doctor had found the bodies, but Professor Goriac wasn't stupid and after she shot the Doctor a questioning look, he decided to let it look as if they had accidentally ran into the garbage contractor and discovered the bodies. A deep frown on her forehead let them know that she didn't believe them. But she let it slide.

“How can something like this happen under your eyes?” the Doctor asked and played with the remaining vials on a table in the laboratory. The Professor looked at him, coldly.  
“My eyes?” she pointed at herself, clearly taking the issue personally. The Doctor had been asking about the whole authority of the ship, but she still took offence.  
“We’re bringing people up, we're trying to find a solution, we're helping them,” her voice became louder, “we were busy keeping our staff from shrinking.” She shook her head, looking away from the two of them.  
“I wasn't aware something like this could happen. And sorry, no. I cannot simply believe you. You don't have any kind of proof, I-”  
“Oh you can, but you won't let yourself,” the Doctor poked her left shoulder with his finger. “Humans- oh, you have evolved, but you're still stupid.”  
“Doctor,” Sherlock defended himself, but the time lord didn't hear him.  
“Ten million years in the future. You've come so far. You've travelled beyond your tiny solar system to survive and have looked for planets to explore and still you won't listen when a child is speaking.” Sherlock kept quiet and looked at the Doctor, awestruck.  
“Do you know, who that is?” the time lord pointed at Sherlock, still looking at the visibly uncomfortable Professor. She gave him a hesitant look. “This is Sherlock Holmes and you may not know his name yet, but in a parallel universe there are books written about him.”  
“Okay-”  
“And since I cannot raise a thousand voices from a million dimensions to speak for me, you just have to take me by my word, when I say, listen to this boy-”

The silence was deafening.

Sherlock didn't dare to move. He realised, after his hands began to hurt, that he'd been grasping the chair in front of him too tightly, and he let go.

“What do you think?” the Professor gazed at Sherlock. To his surprise, with a lot more respect. He cleared his throat. “People must have died before, during those experiments.”  
“Yes.”  
“So, what happens to them?” Professor Goriac looked taken aback, as if it was clear what the answer would be.  
“Well, if we know of family on the planet, we send them back. The bodies. If not, which is more often the case, we keep them in the morgue.” The Doctor and Sherlock looked at each other.  
“And does this morgue keep records of the dead?”  
“Yes,” she said and there was an invisible light switched on in her head. “Follow me,” she said and walked away.

Sherlock tried to keep up with her long strides. “We don't keep all bodies there. We clear it, from time to time,” she explained on the short walk between rooms.  
“Clear it?” the Doctor sounded disgusted.  
“We don't just throw out the bodies, there are interstellar graveyards for victims of all kinds of sorts. We send them there. Unless we think they might still be worth examining, then we keep them.” The Doctor was not surprised, but in Sherlock's mind a thousand imagined imagines appeared. Coffins floating in space, skeletons passing by your window, while on a space trip.  
“Graveyards?” he asked. “Yes, they're very much like the ones you know. More modern, the coffins are not made out of wood, you know, they’re-”  
“Where are you from that you don't know about space graveyards,” Professor Goriac suddenly remarked. Sherlock new that he'd slipped and bit his tongue.

The empty ship had turned into mayhem once they'd left the lab. There were people shouting from everywhere. Sherlock had nearly been run over by two nurses, guiding beds with dying people on it to the hospital.

“Out of the way!” one of them screamed and shoved all of them to the side. Sherlock jumped to the Doctor who walked inside the morgue just in the moment when a giant crowd of people came their way. Sherlock looked at them with big eyes. Some people they brought their way looked as if their skin was burned completely. Red and black everywhere. Some of them had lost all their hair. He grabbed the door frame without looking away and then felt the Doctor's hand on his shoulders. The screaming and shouting all around him got quieter.

“Please let me see the records of all dead of the last quarter,” Professor Goriac strode in and showed her ID to a man, browsing through a big, square book. He looked suspiciously at the Doctor and Sherlock before touching a screen to his right.  
“We didn't have many,” he said and Sherlock had to suppress a grin. “Most of our test objects were healthy enough to be brought down again.” His eyes went back and forth between the Professor and Sherlock now, who was grinning on the outside.

He frowned, halfway about to ask “Wha-” “Yes, I know, show me the records,” Professor Goriac commanded. Two clicks and they were there. “Leave,” she said and sat down on the pathologist's chair. Sherlock and the Doctor moved closer to see the names on the screen. “There are too many, the Doctor said and eyed the Professor detesting. “Don't tell me that this is not many.”  
“No,” she said and on her forehead formed a deep wrinkle.  
“Records can be faked,” Sherlock said, from behind.  
“Yes, but bodies can't,” the Professor said and walked to the drawers behind them.

Marius had made one big mistake in his already flawed plan. “There are not enough of these for all the names on the list,” Sherlock said and pointed at the lab refrigerators. “What?” the pathologist who'd been standing quietly at the other end of the room looked at them exasperated. “You did look at the names of last quarter, did you? Not the ones of the whole time we've been here, or else-” he stopped as he got close enough to look at the list as well. “Oh my God.” His face went white. “We didn't,” flustered he took a step back and looked at Professor Goriac in despair. “We didn't have that many.”

She didn't answer, just went along the wall, opening drawers at random. Eleven out of the twelve she opened were empty. “So where did they go?” she looked at the pathologist as if expecting an answer. But she knew the answer already. “I don't understand,” the man said and Sherlock could see him getting smaller when Professor Goriac walked in his direction.  
“You have literally no responsibility here,” she shouted, “All you have to do is to look after dead people. You have to keep no one alive, you have no one to bring back to their mourning family, you don't have to save a single live, and still you-”  
“Oi, quiet now,” the Doctor shouted and walked up to them, “both of you,” he smacked them over the head with his screw driver which Sherlock would've laughed at, if the situation hadn't been so bizarre.  
“You blame each other, always. There is a person to blame, someone who is not here. Find him, and do something about it.” The Professor looked beaten, but nodded.  
“Who- who are we talking about?” said the pathologist weakly.  
“Marius.”  
“Yes, Marius, he worked with you a couple of times, didn't he? Tall boy, blond hair-”  
“I'd rather call it brown,”  
“That's not important!” shouted Sherlock now. “He killed dozens of people. Now he's running around, trying to save the world and if he doesn't win, he'll kill more people,” he said angrily and to his surprise, the pathologist nodded. “he's just been in here. Less than five minutes before you came in here.”

“I'm gonna check the lab,” the Professor said and headed out the door. “Hospital,” the Doctor simply said and gestured Sherlock to come along. “I'll go-” he tried to say, but was interrupted by the screeching voice of Professor Goriac. “You'll go nowhere but the hospital. We don't know if you're infected.”

Of course. Sherlock had avoided the thought from the moment he got out of that room. The infected man's breath was clearer than any memory and Sherlock shuddered at the thought of it. He'd been so close to him. What would happen, if he was?  
“Doctor?” Sherlock hesitated. They'd stepped through the door into the hospital. “Doctor, what happens if I'm infected?” The time lord, who hadn't been looking at Sherlock since they'd left the morgue, now faced him again.  
“I don't know,” he said softly and Sherlock could see the panic in his eyes. The panic he tried to hide so badly. Sherlock grabbed his school's jacket tighter. He'd been wearing this uniform for so many hours now. He couldn't even remember for how long he'd been awake, let alone when he'd eaten for the last time. But Sherlock wasn't hungry. He was scared.

They'd taken him away from the rest of the patients. None of them looked badly injured, so Sherlock guessed the bad cases were on a different station. He sat on his hospital bed alone, stripped down to socks, trousers and shirt, all the items he had been carrying with himself were put on a table opposite the bed. The Doctor was off, searching the place for Marius and Sherlock had his left arm wrapped around his waist, hugging himself halfway. His right arm was connected to an IV, pumping chemicals into him. Chemicals that Sherlock new wouldn't work.

“Oh, hello,” a young nurse looked at him, smiling, and Sherlock wondered for a second if they were trained to smile at everyone, faking happiness to convince them everything was alright.  
“We're just gonna take some blood, it's not gonna hurt, I promise.” Sherlock didn't answer, just held out his arm. He looked away when the blond nurse took his blood, quicker than any doctor on earth could've ever done it. He heard her fumbling around on a machine next to his bed, holding the blood sample under a scanner. She repeated the process and Sherlock glanced over, looking at her face. She was biting her lip.

“Ok, done, the doctor'll be here soon,” she said and vanished through the door. Sherlock looked around. He was alone in the room with three other empty beds. It looked sad. On the far side of the room, a window presented itself with an equally sad view of the universe’s blackness. The doctor would be here soon, she'd said. Sherlock leaned to the right, trying to catch a glimpse through the glass door. He laid back quickly when a woman with grey hair motioned the door to open and strode though it.

“Sherlock Holmes?” she asked and went on without expecting an answer. She disconnected the tubes of the IV instead.  
“Let's get rid of this,” she smiled a forced smile and pulled them off Sherlock's wrist as well. Only the needle and piece connecting it to his skin remained.  
“You can collect your things, we'll take you to another station.” Sherlock blinked and looked at the doctor and the nurse behind her.  
“Why?” he tried to sound as innocent as he could be.  
“This one will be crowded soon, they're bringing up all the sick people from below.”  
“Am I sick?” The doctor's glance escaped his and he could see her thinking before looking back at him.  
“No, but you need rest. You went through a lot in the last hours.” Everything, from her unsettled voice to the deep frown on the young nurses face told him they were lying.  
“Okay,” he said and smiled, throwing his legs off the bed and slipping into his shoes. He tied them extra fast while the Doctor's advice for every crisis resonated in his mind: Run!

If Sherlock had never met the Doctor, he would've probably dared a different approach to this situation. But the 900 year old time lord had had an impact on the 10 year old and as soon as the nurse and the doctor walked around a corner, Sherlock had sprinted off into the opposite direction.

He wanted to find the Doctor. But that meant running into the hospital wing again, which he couldn't risk. A huge mob of nurses seemed to gather around one bed, which Sherlock could see through one of the open glass walls this ship had to offer. But there was no Doctor.

He kept running.

When he had brought felt 200 feet between him and the doctors, Sherlock slowed down, breathing heavily. The IV on his wrist hurt and he grabbed his arm in hopes it would stop. The door to the passageway he'd passed earlier with Marius was right in front of him. Sherlock's hand hovered over the keyboard. Then, before he could touch it to type in the code, a hand grabbed his right shoulder and he was violently turned around.

Marius.

“Where are they?” he asked, obviously troubled. Sherlock looked at him and then, against his will, grinned sheepishly. “One of them worked?” Marius snorted and eyed Sherlock from top to bottom, apparently expecting to hide the vials somewhere. “Where are they?” “Did they work?” Sherlock asked again, this time more urgently. Marius shut his eyes for a moment, like he couldn't bear to look at Sherlock any more. Then he hit the glowing keyboard with his left hand. The door opened.

“None of you business, where is it?”  
“If you want me to help with your criminal businesses, you need to let me in a little bit,” Sherlock sneeringly remarked.  
“Yes it did! Now where is it?” Marius's eyes suddenly got stuck on Sherlock's wrist.  
“You're infected.”  
“You wanted to kill me,” Sherlock said darkly, “and it surprises you that I got infected?”  
“Didn't think you'd get out.” They both walked through the room that let straight to the glass cage.  
“You didn't think one of your experiments would work either, or else you wouldn't have let me run off with them. Why do you need the other one, now? I thought it worked?” Marius sighed, “They need it to duplicate it.” Sherlock stopped and looked at the red wall of fog in front of him. There was glass of course. But the red fog filled up every inch so one could barely see anything else.  
“What? Nightmares?” Marius raised an eyebrow. He'd obviously never been in there, Sherlock thought and took a step back.  
“What's the matter? Let's move on, so we find the vials you've lost, if you can even remember where-” There was a sudden silence and a panicked look at Sherlock, that told him everything. All of a sudden, Marius was not so brave about the room in front of him any more.

Sherlock walked to the door. He didn't want to look at Marius any more. Every snide remark that he would've thought of in such a moment had left him. Ironically, right now, there was life behind this dreadful door and death, if he didn't dare to walk through it. He braced himself and opened the door. Red smoke whirled up in front of him and Sherlock dived right into it, without any caution.

  
He knew that Marius would be right behind him. A thought, that was beyond discomforting. But he'd heard him running after him, when he stepped into the room. This time, relieved of the initial shock, Sherlock could feel the difference in temperature, which sank, the closer he got to the centre of the room.  
“Where is it?”  
“It?”  
“The creature they're keeping in here.”  
“It's a man,” Sherlock concluded, “and why is he here?”  
“Test object? Experiment?” Marius guessed, “I think they kept him to try out antidotes.”  
Sherlock kept quiet. He didn't look back, but he knew that Marius eyes must've been fixed on the ground. Searching for the vials. Sherlock flinched suddenly, remembering that he'd let them fall next to the glass. They were right in the middle of the room. Cursing inwardly, he turned left.

“What on earth-” Marius cursed as well and sighed. Sherlock wished he could see anything. He took five more steps and then nearly jumped out of his skin. The vials were there. In front of him. But they weren't next to the glass wall. And they weren't alone. Next to them, crouched on the floor, not moving, was a very familiar figure. One, that nightmares were made of.

They didn't dare to move. Both of their stares were fixed on the man on the ground. The vials containing the antidote was next to him. But not all of them were still whole. Sherlock swallowed. His mouth felt incredibly dry. It looked very much like the man had found them and understood that it might save him. So he had drunk them, rubbed them all over his wounded skin, filling all scratches in hope it would heal him. Shards covered the floor around him.

“Oh my God,” Sherlock breathed, “which one is the antidote?” It took a long time for Marius to reply.  
“Red,” he heard his voice shaking, “it's the red one.”  
Sherlock bowed down. It was still there. The red vial, nearly inrecognisable because of the redness around, was not shattered among the others. Sherlock reached out and grabbed the whole tray, standing up again. He smiled, triumphantly, holding the vials close to his body, not giving in to Marius's stretched out hand. But his smile didn't last long, because a heartbeat later, he felt teeth biting into his left ankle.

A scream pierced through red fog, not heard by anyone but the two boys and the dying man next to them. Sherlock tried to pull his foot away from them. “Give me the vials!” Marius shouted and reached out his hand. He looked scared beyond death, although it was not him, the man had sunk his teeth into. “Give it here!” his voice was a hiss. He didn't dare to come closer and shot the man on the ground a terrified look. Sherlock couldn't speak. He pulled his leg away, but to his horror, he man had now his hands clasped around his leg and started to chew. He whimpered and pulled as fast as he could.

“You're an idiot! Give them to me, you'll let them fall!”  
“I'm not an idiot, you are! This won't save your career,” Sherlock said, looking briefly at the vials, “everyone knows that you killed all these people. They're searching the lab. They're gonna find you.”  
“You're lying!” Marius shouted madly. But on his face it was visible that Sherlock spoke exactly what he was fearing. It was so clear that Sherlock began to smile, despite the man's grip on his ankle.  
“Go to hell!” Marius strode forward and instead of taking the tray from him, he pushed Sherlock away. Sherlock was half in shock. He hadn't expected to be thrown over and while he felt the infected man's teeth loosen, his gaze was fully fixed on the one red vial that went flying up, while the tray slipped out of his hands, crashing to the ground, shattering into a dozen little pieces. And Sherlock's hands, instead of protecting him from the fall, were desperately reaching for his one chance to survive. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The red vial found hold between his index and middle finger and Sherlock let himself fall on his back, clutching it closely to his chest, passing out, when his head hit solid ground.

Strained, Sherlock opened his eyes. He wasn't really awake. His mind was stuck somewhere between consciousness and dreaming, figures of horror still floating through his brain. He flinched in fear and closed his eyes again in hopes they would go away.

But why did he have to close his eyes to escape the dream? “Are you requiring a hot beverage? I was requested to ask you this.” The nightmare had a voice. A pleasant voice. Sherlock tried to open his eyes again. The horrifying figure was still there and apparently the nice voice belonged to it.

“What?” Sherlock asked, slowly gaining conscience again. This thing was wearing a plain dark blue suit. A jumpsuit, like a workman. It was bald and where its mouth should be, there was a mass of tentacles. It was speaking through a glowing orb in one of his hands which was connected to its mouth. Sherlock's breathing went up again. He tried to sit up, but his right hand slipped off the bed and only then, Sherlock saw that he had a cast on both his wrists. With a jolt, his heartbeat went up as well and the machine next to him started beeping frantically.

“Sir you shouldn't be afraid. This situation may be unusual for you, but I am here to help. I will bring you a hot beverage and something to eat, but firstly you should take your medicine.”  
It was pointing to Sherlock's bedside table and then left. Sherlock looked around and realised relieved, that it was not the only one. There were at least five of them, running around, serving other people food and drinks in their beds.

He was in the hospital wing. And next to him, thankfully, sat the Doctor, sleeping in a chair.

Sherlock laid back, somehow soothed by the time lord's presence. He had never, during all their travels, seen the Doctor sleep before. He pulled up his sheets and winced painfully, when he realised that even this small movement hurt badly.

“Is everything okay?” a nurse asked Sherlock while passing, “your heart monitor was-”  
“I'm fine, I just didn't know where I was for a moment,” Sherlock said and to his right, the Doctor stirred.  
The nurse nodded and walked away to his next patient. Sherlock eyed the Doctor sleepily over his sheets. The time lord's eyes fluttered open and as soon as his glance fell on Sherlock, he grinned wildly.  
“Sherlock Holmes, detective and life saver. You're gonna have quite a career if you go on like this.” Sherlock didn't dare to return the smile. Not yet.  
“Am I still sick?” he asked, the fear in his voice only audible to the Doctor.  
“No, you're cured,” the man smiled and leaned forward, “And so is everyone else!”

Sherlock felt a hundred weights lifted off his shoulders. He squinted and let a relieved breath escape his lungs. One thing he was still curious about. Sherlock looked at the Doctor again, feeling a lot better after the positive diagnosis.  
“What happened to Marius?”  
“They gave him a medal,” the Doctor said, raising both eyebrows and Sherlock wasn't sure, whether the time lord was joking or not, “for saving all of you. But he won't have nice place to display it, because he's in prison.”  
A laugh escaped his mouth, which made him writhe in pain again, but it was worth it. After the last 24 hours, Sherlock was sure, hurting because of laughing was a much better reason than hurting because of pain.

Sherlock slept through lunch break and through dinner, before waking up again, this time thankfully not to a tentacled face. Professor Goriac was standing next to the foot of the bed. Next to her, the Doctor was standing as well, arms crossed and eyes fixed on Sherlock with an expectant, somewhat curious expression.  
“Are you awake? Can I ask you something?” she cautiously said. Sherlock nodded. “I want to put your names down, on the record, as some of the people who helped solving this crisis,” she smiled. “You'll go down in history.”  
Sherlock nodded, ignoring the impulse to laugh at the word “history”. For him, it was the future after all.  
“So, which names should I write down?” Sherlock let it ring through his head, imagining the sound of it, before giving his answer.  
“Well,” he said, biting his lip in excitement. If he was going to be remembered in the future and the past, it would better be a name with an impact.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said and the the Doctor smiled proudly.  
“And?” the Professor asked, while writing on her clipboard.  
“Doctor.” She looked up, perplexed.  
“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor what?” Sherlock had heard the question in multiple forms and yet, he, too, was befuddled when the Doctor responded with: “Oh, the stuff of legend.”


	7. SUMMER of 1992 pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor tries to convince Sherlock that magic does exist, by taking him to Hogwarts. Overwhelmed by everything he finds there, and left alone by the time lord, Sherlock takes on the one task, that he thinks, matters. To fit in. But soon, more difficult concerns arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Doctor Who, Sherlock or Harry Potter.

Sherlock would have heard the TARDIS, if he hadn't been so absorbed in his mind. The wooden floorboards gave a warm glow to the room, illuminated by a night light next to the window and when the Doctor stepped out of his ship everything but the sullen boy looked welcoming to him. “Hey,” the time lord stretched the word into a suspicious length and closed the TARDIS’s door behind him with his right foot. “Are you okay?” he asked, when Sherlock had still not opened his eyes.

Ignoring the Doctor wouldn't work, Sherlock knew that. But he wasn't in the mood to talk. To do anything of any sort. But still, he opened his eyes and looked sadly at Doctor.

“What's happened?” the time lord walked toward Sherlock's bed and sat down at its end.  
“And why is it dark?” the Doctor asked befuddled, looking around, raising his hands, “I aimed at 3 pm and this looks a lot like-”  
“3 a.m” Sherlock finished his sentence with a muffled voice.  
“Oh, so what's happened?” he asked again, softer, quieter. The whole house was asleep, after all. Sherlock crossed his arms, hugging himself.  
“Redbeard died.” he said, “he got shot. On a holiday in Dartmoor. He was chasing a bird and then some hunter...” His voice was full of sadness and loss.  
“Oh no...” the Doctor whispered and Sherlock could hear, that the 1000 year old man's grief was earnest. “I am so sorry,” the time lord stood up and walked to the head of Sherlock's bed and lay down next to him. With one leg, he shoved his blanket out of the way, which sent some souvenirs on his window sill flying to the ground.

A stone from the moon and some golden coins from the pirate’s cave he’d been to. There wasn't much space on the boy's bed. But both of them were so skinny, it didn't really matter. And it was comforting, although Sherlock didn't want to admit it. The thought of having someone next to him, who knew him. Knew, how important some things were to him, although he didn't want to let it on. And knew, what things he'd been through, and what he could handle.

“Mum and Dad didn't want to tell me,” Sherlock said, his eyes not leaving the ceiling. A mobile, which he had since he was born, decorated the space right above his bed. Planets and stars were attached to it, in blue and purple. Years later Sherlock had added black skulls and ships to it. An ode to his pirate obsession.  
“They wanted to lie to me, about what really happened. And tell me a story of how he lives on a farm now,” Sherlock swallowed, “that's what children are told.”  
“You are a child,” the Doctor cautiously replied and raised an eyebrow.  
“Yeah, that's what everyone keeps telling me,” he paused, “but I don't feel like one.”

The Doctor eyed Sherlock attentively but didn't say anything. Sherlock was still grieving and didn't return the man's gaze, so the time lord did what he could best and pointed his screwdriver at the ceiling. The old mobile above their heads started moving and the light from the windowsill got reflected by the aluminium backsides of the stars, making stars of different sizes appear on every wall. But this wasn't everything. The Doctor pressed the buttons on his screwdriver a bit longer and the ceiling became alive. Hundreds of stars on a blue and purple background swirled before their eyes. Clusters of tiny lightning dots formed galaxies. It was an image Sherlock had seen before. From far away, floating in space, with the Doctor's firm grip on one of his feet. And it did give him comfort, he realised, a warm feeling spreading in his stomach.

“Why don't you cry?” the time lord asked suddenly, his head turned to Sherlock.  
“What for?” Sherlock asked with a weak shrug.  
“I’m so sorry,” the Doctor said again and Sherlock snorted at that, “I know this doesn't make things better-”  
“Why make it better?” Sherlock asked, “it is what it is.”  
There was a silence for a moment, letting the galaxies over their heads pass undisturbed.  
“I didn't think you'd come,” he suddenly said, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.  
“Why?” “I thought you were bored of me. You were late the last time.” Sherlock regretted what he'd said, the second the words had left his mouth. Insecurities were so common, so human, they seemed almost disgusting to him. The didn't seem to bother other children. Some didn't even have them. But Sherlock's brain was overreacting. Every second of every day.

“Whoa, bored? Of you?” the Doctor sat up straight, “I never got bored of anyone. Or anything.” He stood up from the bed and faced Sherlock, who looked at him, amused and reassured.  
“I don't even know how boredom got invented. That's all man-made.” He waved his hands in the air and rolled his eyes slightly.

Sherlock sat up as well and crossed his legs. He blinked a few times, trying to get used to the dancing lights and galaxies, still swirling through the room. If his parents or Mycroft had opened the door right now, he would have had quite a lot to explain.  
“Do adults travel with you?” he asked curiously.  
“Yes,” the time lord said a bit louder only to throw a scared glance to the door and press his lips together afterwards.  
“Yes, many!” he said more quietly.  
“I thought people stopped believing in fairy tales once they're grown up?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.  
“What?” the Doctor's voice pitched again, “Who told you that? Surely not me?” Sherlock laughed.  
It felt weird on his face.  
“And for the record,” the Doctor continued, “I'm better than any fairy tale you know. The human mind can only imagine so much. Reality is far weirder.”  
He leaned against Sherlock's cupboard with crossed arms.  
“I don't believe in magic,” Sherlock said, completely self-confident which made the Doctor look appalled.  
“Pff, who needs magic when you have science! But- since you're in a very uncooperative mood right now, let me show you real magic.”

With two steps he crossed the distance to the TARDIS and kicked the door open. Sherlock felt a familiar tug in his stomach and a tingling on his skin. The Doctor had already entered his ship and was now holding out his hand into the boy's room. Nothing else was separating Sherlock from the universe. Just a door in his room, throwing light from a different dimension on the wooden floor. He curled his toes, suddenly aware, that he was about to run away in his socks, and then, without even switching his night light off, he jumped into the time lord's ship.

“I thought magic doesn't exist and it's all science?” Sherlock asked, while he ran back to the control room, after putting on a pair of trainers in the TARIDS’s wardrobe.  
“Ohh, you're right,” the Doctor pressed some buttons wildly on the console. “But let me show you something anyway.”  
“What?”  
“Something. A place. A magical place.” The timelord's eyes went wide and he winked. Sherlock was still not very convinced, but he had barely time to argue. “Now,” the Doctor explained while grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders. “Off you go to the wardrobe.”  
“I just came from there.”  
“Yes, but with the wrong clothes.”  
“What?”  
“You need to get your uniform.”  
“What uniform?” Sherlock could barely take the steps up from the console fast enough.

“Your school uniform,” the Doctor said as he pushed Sherlock towards the doors leading to the TARDISs inner passageways.  
“You're not seriously sending me to school? I'm on holiday!” he protested.  
“Yes I am,” the Doctor snapped his fingers and turned around rapidly, “But one you've never been to before. Never.” Sherlock frowned. “Get your uniform, we're going to Hogwarts!”

Clothes were flying everywhere as the Doctor searched for the fitting black jacket and white shirt for the pair of trousers Sherlock was already holding in his hands. Sherlock stood on the side, watching pieces of clothing from every era pile up around him.

The TARDISs wardrobe was like nothing Sherlock had ever seen before. The first time he'd been in there, four years ago, he was scared to step into it. Shelves and hangers started to move once someone got close to them. It seemed to stretch into infinity when he looked to the ceiling, but there was no way up. The ancient staircases seemed to be there only for its pure aesthetics. Instead, Sherlock had to step on the moving floor and exit the room to the other side, which transported him to a room with completely different clothing of a different century.

“There you go!” The Doctor pulled his head out of a moving shelf. In his hands he held the missing pieces to Sherlock's wizarding school outfit.  
“Are you sure, these are the right things? They look pretty normal to me. What about this?”  
Sherlock picked up a purple gown with yellow stars on it and raised his eyebrows questioning at the Doctor. The time lord let his shoulders sink in exasperation.  
“That was only a phase, let it go.” Sherlock laughed out loud and it felt so weird to move these muscles in in face again.  
“I'm gonna try them on. Did they belong to someone who travelled with you?” Sherlock said as he took off his t-shirt and tried on the shirt.  
“Young boy from Hogwarts, years ago”  
“What happened to him?” Sherlock asked. He never got to wrap his head around the idea, that someone could willingly stop travelling with the Doctor.  
“He's going on his own adventures, now,” the time lord smiled.

Apparently he approved of the boy's decision. Maybe, Sherlock thought, there was a whole club of people out there, living extraordinary lives, only because they crossed the path of a man with two hearts in his chest.  
“What adventures?”  
“You'll read about them at Hogwarts,” the Doctor said, “he's written a book about it.”  
“Who says I'm gonna have time to read books when I need to learn magic tricks?”  
“You won't have a choice, it's one of your textbooks.” Sherlock nodded, looking at the Doctor in his new uniform.  
“Approve?” he raised one of his eyebrows. The Doctor grinned and held up both thumbs.  
“What about the scarf?” Sherlock asked, pointing at the yellow and grey knitted scarf over his friend's shoulders.  
“Oh no,” threw it back into the wardrobe, “that was Newt's, you'll get your own.”  
“Does it have to be yellow?” Sherlock grimaced.  
“Nah,” the Doctor grinned, “you'll see!”

It was one thing to be fighting Daleks in a toy store, or to escape a haunted house. But being dropped off at a school, not knowing anyone, was far beyond Sherlock's level of comfort. He barely fitted in at his school at home, and there he never had to pretend he was from the place. Here, fitting in was vital. He didn't have to pretend he was a wizard. The Doctor had explained to him that many students came to Hogwarts not knowing the magic world had existed before. But that was about it. 

The Doctor had pushed him outside the TARDIS with a quick “Dumbledore knows you're with me” and “Make friends with that dark haired orphan, you'll get along!” and then Sherlock stood there alone, in the tallest entry hall he'd ever seen. The TARDIS’s doors flew open once more and the Doctor peeked outside.  
“I'll get your school stuff and drop it off in your dorm.”

With that, the TARDIS’s breaks were released and the familiar sound filled the stone walled room. Sherlock suddenly felt abandoned. He could actually never remember a time where he hadn't been accompanied to a new place by either his parents or Mycroft. His hands had grown sweaty and he started to rub them dry on his trousers.

Right now, curiosity was the only thing keeping him sane. His feet took the stone steps upstairs on their own. One after another. On the corners of the staircase there were torches with H's engraved on them. He turned around on the upper step and looked up. A group of students was standing there. More than a class did usually contain but way less than a whole year.

They were all wearing the same outfit, the same as he did. A white shirt and black trousers or skirts, some longer, some shorter. Sherlock could distinguish straightaway which children’s parents were poorer and which richer and where the Doctor’s former companion, who had now unknowingly given his uniform to Sherlock, had fitted in.

Most of them were babbling, excited red faces looking from one to another and shining eyes everywhere, so Sherlock cleared his throat as silent as he could and walked up. If he had been part of the group, he would have recognised a stranger joining them immediately. But none of the children did. A blond girl with braids next to him looked at Sherlock strangely for a second, as if a ghost had emerged from the ground, but then she just smiled and turned around, continuing her conversation with the girl on her left.

Just, when Sherlock was about to cautiously ask her what exactly they were waiting for, the door was opened by a friendly looking man with a long brown beard.  
“The sorting will now begin,” he said with a hoarse voice and his eyes were twinkling as he looked around the group of pupils.  
“Please line up in pairs and walk up to the sorting hat.” The students in the front moved and 

Sherlock quickly found himself paired up with the blond girl next to him. They walked through the door and Sherlock’s mind was overwhelmed. It wasn’t as breathtaking as flying through a nebula while sitting on the roof of the TARDIS, it was different but very, very beautiful. Here, there was more to see, people to read, puzzles to decipher. There were candles floating in the air, whatever kind of physical law that may be and the ceiling was just endless.

On a different planet this could’ve made sense, but this was the earth he knew, the planet he grew up on, just in a parallel universe. Striding through the doors and into the hall, he could have sworn hearing someone say his name, and he looked behind, just to lock eyes with the bearded wizard who had opened the doors. He smiled confidently at Sherlock. He knew who he was, Sherlock thought. When he turned his head back, he was nearly hit by the girl next to him, who was enthusiastically waving at someone sitting at a table. There were four of them, Sherlock noticed. Four and a single one up front with older wizards and witches sitting at. The teachers, it seemed.

“That was my brother,” the girl on Sherlock’s left disturbed his thought process. They were about to reach the old, battered hat on the stool.  
“He’s in year 5 now and a Gryffindor.”  
“A Gryffindor,” Sherlock repeated. He thought it was better not to ask what a Gryffindor was, in case they were the cool people of the wizarding world who everyone should know.

“Yeah,” she didn’t sound particularly offended, quite the contrary, she looked fiercely proud. “I’m gonna be one, too.” Sherlock swallowed. Nothing he knew, nothing he’d ever learned had prepared him for this moment.  
“Good,” he said and looked around. What on earth was a Gryffindor?  
“I’m Marietta,” she said and looked at Sherlock, expecting an answer.  
“I’m Sherlock,”  
“Nice to meet you, Sherlock. What house do you think you’re gonna be in?”  
“Umm,”  
“Well, no one actually knows, my cousin is a Ravenclaw. The only one in the family.”  
“Yeah that,” Sherlock said quickly, “Ravenclaw.”  
“So you’re smart, then?” Sherlock laughed, relieved. It seemed like he had picked the right weird word to choose from.  
“Yeah, I think I am. So is my brother,” he quickly added, to make his appearance look more believable. “He’s smart, we’re all Ravenclaws.”  
“Oh, what year is he in?” She seemed upsettingly curious.  
“He’s seven years older than me,” Sherlock went with the safe answer.

He fervently hoped that the students weren’t going to Hogwarts until year 10. How long did wizard education take?  
“So he graduated last year?” She smiled. Sherlock nodded affirmatively.  
“Sorry, I thought for a moment that you were a muggle-born, because you looked so confused when I said Gryffindor,” she laughed.  
“Umm no,” he said and looked away. Thankfully they had reached the old hat, before the talk went out of hand. Sherlock clenched his fists.

The Doctor had not thought of a single fact to tell Sherlock to prepare him for this peculiarity. What was a muggle-born? He listened to the conversation a boy and a girl were having behind him, but the only thing they were talking about were food and ghosts. Ghosts. Sherlock shivered. If they were anything like the one’s he’d met in the Thompson’s family house, he’d run away from here, with or without a TARDIS. He might borrow a broomstick, if these witches did use them.

And then, as if the thought of ghosts wasn’t upsetting enough, Sherlock felt his right leg grow cold, in the matter of a second. He jumped and nearly punched Marietta next to him. There was a ghost, reaching out of the ground. He wasn’t green like the ones he’d seen before but white and just as transparent. The fat man floated into the air, grinning from one side of his face to the other.

“Ohh, first years. I hope many of you will be in my house.” Sherlock stared.  
“What is your house?” he asked before he could control himself.  
“Hufflepuff,” he said proudly and looked down, making his face form more chins, “the house of hard work and kindness, my boy, there’s nothing that should be valued more.”  
“Oh, one could argue,” the bearded man from the door walked past them and winked at the fat ghost. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Marietta nod fiercely.  
“Gryffindor, house of the brave,” she raised her fist in triumph, as if she’d won a contest. In her case, it would definitely be a boasting contest. The man had walked up to the front of the row and just when Sherlock tried to imagine how an old hat could have anything to do with the sorting into houses, it began to sing.

For years and years  
I've lived in here  
Among no fellow peers

You may think now,  
Oh what a bore  
But open up your ears

I work full-time  
To put some words  
Together in a rhyme

So that each year  
You folks can hear

A new song, quite sublime

The content never varies  
Of that you can be sure  
A tale unlike most stories   
And so much more obscure

All students must be sorted  
That was the founders' will  
The qualities supported  
I’ll see while you sit still

I do want the courageous  
The ones so brave at heart  
Said Gryffindor and let those  
With fearless spirit start

The ones with much ambition  
Resourcefulness and pride  
For purity in ancestry  
Be Slytherin’s tonight

Ravenclaw, the wisest  
Said that she wanted those  
with brains and wit and cleverness  
To teach them all she knows

The kindest hearts are all I need  
Was Hufflepuff's idea  
For fairness, patience, loyalty  
Were surely valued here

Those are the four,  
I have to choose  
Just one that fits alright  
So just let go of all your fears  
And let me sort you right 

Sherlock was awestruck once more. He had been so focused on the moving lips of the hat, that he hadn’t even realised the great hall had filled up with more ghosts. The lips of course, weren’t actual lips. They were folds of cloth that moved. But oh were they alive. None of the things, of the wonders Sherlock had seen in the other worlds, on the planets far away did compare to this very simple kind of magic. It wasn’t better. It was just different. And Sherlock felt weirdly at home.

“I will call out your names and then you will come forward and I will put this incredibly clever hat on your heads.” The professor with the long brown beard said and smiled at the crowd.  
“Abbington, Eleanora,” he called out and a big girl with short brown hair and terrified eyes walked past Sherlock up to the hat. She looked like she was about to vomit, with her slightly green face. Compared to her, Sherlock thought he was doing quite fine. At least she must’ve had some time to get used to the idea of being a witch. Although she didn’t look like she’d been used to it for very long.

Could non-magic people become wizards, too? The thought was bothering Sherlock. What if the Doctor had sent him here in the sheer believe that anything was possible and didn’t even think of the consequences. What, if he could not do magic at all? Sherlock felt sick. His mind was so far off, that he didn’t even notice Eleanora Abbington getting off the stool after the hat shouted Ravenclaw. And he didn’t notice Dan Brealey and Matthew Brooke getting sorted either.

More and more students were called to the hat and the empty seats at the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Hufflepuff tables were quickly filled. Sherlock couldn’t entirely identify how the sorting worked. Would he have to solve a riddle? He hoped so, That would be the easiest way. If he were to sort people by their cleverness, he’d definitely do it like that. But how could the hat measure kindness or ambition? Or bravery? Did it look inside one’s head? The idea was terrifying. 

After a while, Sherlock seemed to recognise a pattern. Those who walked forward with pure confidence became usually Slytherins. Maybe, if he’d been born in this world, he might’ve been able to produce the same level of confidence on his face. Gryffindors tended to be more open and louder while he’d seen girls and boys that were sorted into Ravenclaw engage in deep conversations with other students while waiting. Hufflepuffs, he thought, were a lot harder to identify. Before he knew it, the man at the front had reached the letter “H” and with that-, “Holmes, Sherlock,” he called out and Sherlock’s stomach suddenly felt incredibly uneasy.

He walked forward and sat down. The professor whispered a “good luck” to him, had he done this to the others as well?, and then he felt the leather of the hat touch his scalp. At first, there was silence. And then, a voice in his head let Sherlock nearly jump.  
“Ahhh, this is something new, isn’t it? Something about you is very, very special. Now, where do I put you?” Sherlock’s hands gripped the wooden stool tighter.  
“You are clever. Cleverer than most and you have the potential to become something great.” A thought hushed through Sherlock’s mind and then, faster than he expected, the sorting hat picked up on it.  
“Ravenclaw, hm? Definitely a choice to consider. But why? You are smart, but the knowledge you seek, you seek not for knowledge’s sake, isn’t that right?” Sherlock couldn’t see the hat’s expression, but he did swear, if he could, it would be a smirk.  
“You are resourceful and you have the burning desire to succeed at what you’re doing. Whatever that may be.” He could hear the hat hum contently. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it vibrated on his head.  
“No, I think the right house for you would be Slytherin!”

Sherlock opened the eyes he didn’t remember closing and exhaled. The table on his right was cheering and so were the others, albeit less eagerly. Quickly he stood up and put the hat back down on the stool. The man leading the sorting looked at him surprised, with big eyes through is half moon glasses. But Sherlock had no time to ponder about this as he had to make way for the next kid to claim their house and so he walked off, relieved and excited about his first task in this new and strange world, that he apparently had just mastered.

The welcome at the Slytherin table was polite, even if it was not as warm, as the hugging at the Hufflepuff or the Gryffindor one. He shook three hands and received two pats on the back. The rest of his fellow Slytherin students just nodded at him in acceptance. It was all he needed in this moment. Acceptance.

As the sorting went on, Sherlock longingly stared at the empty plates on the table. Now while he was sitting comfortably, the tiredness of the last hours was creeping up on him. A yawn escaped his mouth, quickly followed by several more. When the Doctor had visited him in his room, it had been 3 in the morning. Now, at least another hour had passed. But Sherlock wasn’t just tired, he was also hungry.

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to whatever stories the other students were telling. “My uncle ... died this summer, couldn’t let go of his fortune, mum hoped that we would get some of it at least, but no. Now he’s guarding it as a ghost, it’s ridiculous.” “My sister got her first broom for her birthday. She scared all our cats, racing through the house. Mum and Dad won’t allow her to go outside with it, because muggles could see her.”

Muggles. The word had fallen again and Sherlock was slowly understanding what it could be. A non-magical person.  
“You alright, mate?” someone nudged him and Sherlock’s eyes flew open again. He blinked as a ginger boy grinned at him. “Don’t fall asleep, it’s nearly dinner.”  
“No, of course not,” Sherlock blinked hard. “The plates are still empty,” he remarked stupidly.  
His brain was really not awake.  
“Well they’re gonna be filled every minute, or so I was told.”  
“By whom?”  
“My brothers, they’re older than me. I should probably write them a letter that I’m in Slytherin,” his eyes went dark as he said it.  
“They won’t like it, they’re all Gryffindors.” There was something unsettling about the sorting, Sherlock thought. One more thing to worry about, except good marks.  
“I’m Victor.”  
“Sherlock. When are you gonna tell them?”  
“As soon as I get my hands on a school owl, I guess. Don’t have my own,” Sherlock wasn’t completely sure if he misheard, because the word out of Victor’s mouth had sounded a lot like owl.  
“Do you have a pet with you?”  
“No,” Sherlock said reluctantly. What school allowed their students to bring pets?  
“Better none, than a toad,” Victor said and earned a perplexed stare from Sherlock that he luckily took as a yes.  
“Do you have a favourite Quidditch team?”

Before Sherlock could invent a believable reply, heads around him turned to the headmaster, a tall, grey man whose robes reflected the greyness of his hair and beard. “So, another year at Hogwarts begins.” His voice, Sherlock noticed, was bored, as if he was tired of his job. He’d done this speech perhaps more often than he could remember. “All first year students, please note that the forest, which you will find on the castle grounds, is forbidden, for everyone. The rest of the school rules the prefects shall explain to you, once you’re settled in the houses you were sorted into. And now, Enjoy your dinner.” 

A loud “Ohhh” went through the great hall and when Sherlock turned back around, dinner had been served. His fatigue was forgotten, when he saw the amounts of yorkshire puddings, varieties of potatoes, roast beef and chicken, peas and carrots and gravy all served on the long table. He and especially Mycroft had always loved Sunday roasts, but this broke all dimensions of what he was used to. His parents’ cooking was good. But this meal was simply magical. While he devoured the contents of his plate, he listened to his new classmates telling stories of their wizarding life. About Quidditch, whatever that may be. And the ministry. The jobs their parents had. Apparently the ministry offered a huge range of jobs for wizards and witches. And soon after pudding had been served and three more lies about his imaginary life had been invented, Sherlock felt tired again. 

Luckily, most students felt the same, yawning over their plates and with a clap of the headmaster’s hands, the tables emptied theirselves, leaving nothing but rustic wood and countless sleepy faces behind. “The prefects will now lead the first years to their common rooms and dormitories. I wish you all a good night and plenty of rest before we start the new year tomorrow.” Rest was what Sherlock needed. In the last days he’d gotten none of that with his head overthinking everything about his dog’s passing. But here his grief was somewhat smaller. And if not that, at least more insignificant. 

The way to the Slytherin dormitory was short. Unlike the students of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, they didn’t walk up the towers, but went downstairs. The otherwise friendly looking castle became more eerie with every step they took. Water dropped down from the vaulted corridors, making several first years jump away. The prefect at the front didn’t seem to care. He made his way at a great pace past the slippery walls containing several holes with skulls and pickled creatures. There was nothing new to Sherlock, who had spent his last summers on pirate ships and in labs of mad scientists, but the indifference in which some students looked at them, was slightly troubling.

All of a sudden, their walk came to an end in front of a bare, damp wall. There was nothing special about it, but once the prefect, a short blond boy, opened his mouth and said “Parseltongue”, a door in the wall appeared and swung open.

“That must be the password!” Victor whispered to Sherlock who was more intrigued by the word than the fact it was opening a door.  
“What does it mean?”  
“What?” Victor looked at him with big, unbelieving eyes.  
“I mean,” Sherlock tried to talk himself out of it, “I heard the word, can’t remember the meaning.”  
“It’s the language of snakes. Legend says-” But Sherlock never found out, what legend said. Once it was his turn to walk through the doors of what would be his new home, a long and low green room presented itself to him. It was cozy. Or at least something that Sherlock would consider as cozy. It something entirely different to the Holmes’s house. There were no beige walls, orange curtains or patchwork blankets. Instead, there were antique sofas and armchairs, all covered with a dark green fabric. The walls were the same as the ones in the dungeon they walked through. Just as damp, but for some reason they didn’t drip. A spell must’ve been preventing it. Lamps and candle holders, sconces and the shelves for books and odd artefacts lying around on them were all engraved with snakes and at the very end of the room, two giant windows filled the room with a ghostly emerald light.

“This is it,” the prefect turned around and pointed at two archways on his left. “The right one goes to the girls’ dormitory and the left one to the boys’. All your belongings should already be placed next to your beds.” And with that, the boys and girls walked off in different directions. Some older students were sitting in the chairs, playing games that involved magic and Sherlock could’ve sworn he saw a chess piece move on a board between two girls.

“Are you going up to bed or do you want to sit in here for a while?” Victor asked while staring at a group of students forming around a dark haired boy. They were laughing, nearly screeching and more and more students looked their way. Sherlock was ready to fall into bed and sleep ten hours straight, but curiosity kept him awake. He sat down on the sofa, together with Victor and eyed the group skeptically.

“Can’t believe they still let mud-bloods coming to our school,” a boy with a gaunt face said, sneering.  
He couldn’t have been older than 17, but if Sherlock would’ve met him outside of school, he would have thought him to be mid-twenties.  
“And half-bloods.”  
“That’s not the same, Gabriel.”  
“Hell yes!” The group of students laughed frantically, as if they’d just been told the world’s best joke.  
“They’re not the scum,” a blond boy, tall with a serpent like face said calmly, “it’s their parents.”  
“Blood traitors,” a girl with black, wild hair said disparagingly and a boy next to her high-fives her with a grin.  
“It was nearly being taken care of last year, wasn’t it?” He looked at a boy, lounging on an armchair. 

He smirked and shrugged. Something about him was off. Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint it. He was never sure what to do with intuition, but every fibre of is body told him to do both, stay away and get closer.  
“Only partly,” he said and looked at his fingers.  
“You never told us how-”  
“I told you enough.”  
“But what are your plans?”  
“For the future? You’ll see with time, until then, I hope I can count on your support and loyalty?” 

There was no affection in his voice. Only a cold approach of power. But the boy, Gabriel, seemed to feel comfortable in it. He grinned and leaned back, content.  
“Oh yes, my Lord,” the black haired girl said and winked. They all felt so special, Sherlock started to feel sick. His stomach seemed to turn itself around. The ones with much ambition, Resourcefulness and pride, for purity in ancestry, be Slytherin’s tonight.

What house did the sorting hat put him into? Cold sweat started to run down his temples, but when he touched his forehead there was none. He’d just imagined it. He wasn’t just a muggle or muggle-born. He wasn’t even from this world. These people, this house, they hated them. He had unknowingly walked right into a lion’s den. What was he gonna do, if he couldn’t do any magic? If they found out? Instantly, plans of escapes formed in his head, one more ridiculous than the other. The first days would be okay, he could act as if he belonged, but what then? The students in this house seemed to welcome any Slytherin proudly, but only because they thought their ancestry was pure.

And then there was this this boy sitting in the centre. He was downright scary, although he’d barely said anything, he seemed to have them all wrapped around his finger. All eyes were on him. Even the first year’s. And they were all filled with admiration and unconditional obedience. The need to be liked and accepted by him was so needy and desperate, it was sickening. Mycroft would’ve probably liked it. Mistrusted, maybe, but definitely liked it. Or, Sherlock thought, he would’ve wanted to take the boy’s place and boast around his own world views. A tiny part in his brain whispered, you, too, if you weren’t so insecure about your non-magic heritage. The show went on and more and more comments fell, supported by a nod or cold smile by the boy with dark hair. 

Only, when the first students left for their beds, Sherlock dared to stand up and look around. Everyone had been occupied by the talks in the centre. Sofas and armchairs had been shifted to fit the scene like a round table. The only person not being involved in it, that Sherlock could see now, was a girl a bit older than himself, sitting quietly in the corner, reading a book. Slowly he walked over. She looked up, with an unimpressed face.

“Can I ask you something?” He felt like a baby, asking people for help. This had to change.  
“That boy, in the armchair right in the middle. Who is he?” The girl swallowed and her eyes were panicking slightly, but Sherlock’s face must’ve had been just as scared, so she shut her book and sat up.  
“You’re new.”  
“I’m a first year.”  
“You don’t have any older siblings?” She asked a suspiciously.  
“My brother is not on Hogwarts anymore.” She nodded and grabbed her book tighter.  
“He’s the head boy of Hogwarts. Favourite of most teachers.”

The most in her voice told Sherlock that the few who didn’t like him, had a reputation.

“He has some ideas. Opinions. About how the wizarding world should be. And he’s got followers.” She nodded to the group of laughing and shouting wizards and witches. “You’re not one of them?”  
“I am a Slytherin. I am loyal to my housemates. But I am not one of them, I’m neutral.”  
“Do you think he’s wrong?” Sherlock asked, but the girl just shrugged.  
“I don’t have an opinion.” Sherlock looked back at them.  
“Don’t get too involved,” she suddenly said. “I mean, I’m not going to tell you what to do, but he’s not someone to trust.”  
He nodded. “What’s his name?”  
“Tom Riddle.”  
“Okay, that’s not a name I would give a Lord’s son,” Sherlock said, taken aback.  
“Lord?” The girl was clearly confused.  
“Yes, one of the girls called him Lord, I thought-”  
“Oh no,” she let out a nervous laugh, “no, no, no, he’s not a Lord, he just likes to be called that. It’s idiotic. In fact, he’s an orphan, I don’t think he’s a Lord’s son,” she shook her head with her eyes closed. “He has some incredible magical abilities though,” she said and lowered her voice, “some of us believe that he’s a descendent of Salazar Slytherin himself.”

Sherlock felt a tingling on his skin. Make friends with that black haired orphan, you'll get along! The Doctor could not have been serious. Sherlock thought it couldn’t be, that he was supposed to become friends with this person. He was like a dark, twisted, brainwashed Mycroft. And one Mycroft in his life was enough. He had troubles reading him, which made him more anxious than he’d ever been in his life.

“Can I borrow your book?” Sherlock asked suddenly, when his glance hit the words on the cover. Hogwarts a history.  
“You can get one in the library as well,” the girl said, but held it up to him, anyway.  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, without an explanation and walked away quickly, to barricade himself in his new bedroom.


	8. AUTUMN of 1992 pt. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock or Harry Potter
> 
> Also, I bent the rules in the Harry Potter Universe a little bit

Two boys were already sleeping, so Sherlock tried to make the least noise possible. He’d always had the luxury of having his own space. Not even his brother had bothered him there, because he was generally uninterested in Sherlock’s life. Or so it had always seemed to him. Having someone to share a room with brought several inconveniences. For instance, he had to hold in his excitement as he unpacked the massive trunk brought here by the Doctor. Robes and jumpers, trousers and a hat were all neatly folded next to each other.

Books were right next to them, about Potions and Transfiguration, Charms and Herbology. Most of them were leather bound, like books you would find covered in dust, sitting in old libraries. Some were purple or blue and had golden words depicted on their spine. Sherlock kept looking through his new possessions, until his hands found what he’s been thinking about since he heard the word “wizard”.

A wand. It was made out of dark wood, maybe 13 inches long and slightly crooked. It was insane. The thought that tomorrow he was supposed to make things appear out of nowhere with this stick. Right now, it lay in his hand like a rock. Even with wooden sticks that used to be his swords years ago, he knew more to do with. He put the wand back on the neatly folded clothes in his trunk and pulled out a pyjama. Once dressed, he climbed into the four-poster bed, covering his feet that had gone cold from the stone floor. The book Hogwarts a history, which he had previously thrown on the bedsheets, lay close to his face on the pillow. Sherlock opened it. The words were barely readable in the weak, green light and Sherlock was halfway through the first sentence, when his eyes fell shut.

Sherlock had his first days all planned through in his head. Something he hated. Plans were something for the intellectually bankrupt. But he had to admit that the castle was a challenge and his life here doubly so. He needed to explore and to learn to fit in. And to do so he needed to know everything about the castle.

Finding the way back to the great hall was easy. He just had to follow the other students. Getting to his first class, Herbology, was much more of a challenge. The stairs back outside were the same that Sherlock took last night, but when he entered the castle grounds, the sheer mass of land that belonged to the school astonished him. There were still others that lead the way, so he and his first year Slytherin classmates quickly found the needed greenhouse. Plants of every kind decorated its interior. While small and uninteresting, Sherlock reckoned that they would probably have some kind of use and ability. He’d never seen them before. No household he’d ever been in had a pot with a red and white dotted mouth standing on a windowsill. His thoughts were confirmed, when the teacher, Professor Stormbird started telling them what they’d be covering this year. The man was old and had shaggy white hair like a mad physics teacher. He reminded Sherlock of Albert Einstein, and wore a moss green gown, something that might’ve belonged to Sherlock’s grandmother.

“We will start lightly,” he said with a very hoarse voice, “by observing bow truckles in their natural habitat and taking notes about them- and- ,” he paused for a moment and raised one finger like a grandfather telling his grandsons a tale, “how to use them.”

Sherlock looked fascinated at the tree where little green creatures were lounging. They were told to take a look into their Fantastic Beasts and where to find them textbook for homework. Soon they proceeded, listening to the Professor talking about leaping toadstools and the devil’s snare. Topics they were supposed to cover during their first year. They left after 2 hours with strained brains and the warning to shout loudly if they should ever be seized by a venomous tentacula, to attract attention. So this was what parents in this world told their kids before leaving the house on their own. This world didn’t need criminals, it had plants.

Transfiguration was more active, much, to Sherlock’s liking. They were given snail shells and had to turn them into pebbles after receiving a brief introduction by Professor Dumbledore. It was the same Professor, Sherlock noticed, that had welcomed them to the great hall on their first day. Sherlock’s hand was sweaty as it held his wand tightly and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. Students around him, from Slytherin and Hufflepuff, were all saying, some shouting, the latin words ferociously. His own were said in despair.

The movements they were supposed to make had been shown to them and Sherlock thought he’d understood them, which made him feel better, especially after he saw how his friend Victor Trevor treated the poor shell in front of him. The tip of his wand had hit the wooden desk so many times that it had left a scorch mark on its surface. He’d earned himself a scolding, yet amused glance from the Professor and let his shoulders fall in resignation.

“It is not unusual to not succeed at your first try,” Dumbledore said, encouraging. “The best and brightest wizards have not achieved anything on their first day. It’s a very tricky matter to get the movement and the words right,” he looked at Sherlock to his left.

“Don’t roll the r. And lower your hand a bit.” He took it and lowered it until Sherlock’s hand was only 7 inches away from the snail shell. “Try it,” he nodded at him.

Sherlock did and to his astonishment, and all of his classmates, the small object became a tiny bit rounder and smoother. “Very well,” the Professor smiled. “Five points for Slytherin.” Victor looked lost and picked up his wand to try again. Sherlock took the result of his magic in his hands. It was not a stone yet. But it wasn’t a shell either. It was heavier although it still had the hole on one side. Maybe it was supposed to be like that. The Professor had not mentioned anything about it. And maybe, Sherlock thought and cupped the pebble in his hands, he did belong here after all.

Lunch break was desperately needed and while most first-years devoured their food, Sherlock had his head stuck in his potions book. It was the one subject that came close to his interest from the muggle world - chemistry. But potions wasn’t chemistry- it was wilder. It was what Sherlock imagined must’ve been every chemist’s childhood dream. Mixing frog legs and the horn of a unicorn together, to make an otherworldly elixir. Sherlock shut the book close after browsing through it for a few minutes and took a bite out of his Cornish pasty. The few Slytherin boys and one girl, who were sitting and eating with him, Victor included, were talking about what had happened so far, but Sherlock didn’t care to join in. Potion classes, where he could brew the weirdest elixirs, stairs that moved, a hat that spoke into one’s head. It was so surreal and trying to wrap his head around it, only made it stranger. Alien mermen, pirate ships, comic figures coming to life, angel statues that moved, ghosts, spaceships. Sherlock felt an unusual tug in his stomach. He was 11 years old and he’d seen and done things, no one else had. There were people, 80 years older than he was, maybe at the brink of dying. And not even they could claim to have seen what his eyes saw. What, he thought, would he be doing when he was 30? Or 40? A sudden feeling of power spread through his veins and Sherlock’s skin was tingling. He could become immensely powerful. Influential. If this would go on like it did now, there was absolutely nothing standing in his way. Not even Mycroft had the experience he did. He didn’t intend to, but he was looking into the distance, eyes fixed on an imaginary point. Just emptiness. But when got back his consciousness, a handsome, 17 year old face stared back at him and smiled.

Potions was over quickly. Like all things that are fun. Professor Slughorn, who was teaching the subject, was slightly distracted and self centred but nice. They had to brew a boil cure potion and Sherlock had to admit, that even though he followed the instructions thoroughly, the potion turned out not as good as he hoped. Nevertheless, he had Professor Slughorn’s eyes hovering over his work. “You are clearly a talent, boy,” Sherlock frowned. The brew in front of him was an ugly green. It was supposed to be yellow. Slughorn walked away, eyeing the other student’s potion just as closely. Like he was about to assemble an army of potion brewers.

Class was over and the majority of Slytherin students walked to the left, deeper into the dungeons while Sherlock rapidly ran to the right. Passing the Hufflepuffs on the way back from potions class, he ran up to the big staircase. He had memorised some of the parts of Hogwarts, which he got out of Hogwarts a History, so he knew exactly knew where the library was. In theory. In reality, it took him about half an hour and two dead ends, one of which was guarded by Peeves, the Poltergeist. Exasperated and covered in dust, thanks to Peeves, he trotted the last few feet with this bag dragged over the ground. There was an hour left until dinner.

Yet, Sherlock’s hunger faded away once he saw the the bookshelves of the Hogwarts library reaching into the air. On tables on each side and between the shelves, a few students were studying. Some alone and some in groups, having books in piles in front of them. It looked empty, still, probably, because it was the first day of school. Sherlock put his bag on one of the empty tables and walked down the aisle. The books right next to it, longed to have their spines touched. Some with golden embossing, some with leather that bit once touched. He returned from the end with a stack of books about more of the founders history. About secret passages, potions, creatures at the brink of extinction and muggle history from the viewpoint of a wizard.

Hours went by and dinner went by. And at 8 o’clock, the librarian had to kindly kick Sherlock out of the library, to return to his common room. He walked back in the dark, the castle only illuminated by torches and moonlight coming in from the windows and his head felt at least 3 times bigger.

The week went on like this. New subjects were introduced, like Defence against the Dark Arts and Astronomy, which admittedly made Sherlock fall asleep during the class. Not that the teaching was bad, but he simply knew already everything about the solar system. He didn’t need anyone to explain to him that Europa was covered in ice. He had a snowball fight with the Doctor on Europa.

After every day, Sherlock skipped dinner to bury himself in his library books. Something he would’ve never done at home or in his own, boring reality. But here the books were so much more interesting and the stuff to learn so much better. His behaviour did not really strike anyone as odd, since no one really knew him- he was a first year, after all. Only Victor Trevor asked him from time to time whether he would join him for dinner or lunch and got the usual disappointing answer for that. But his anonymity quickly went away one night, when he sat curled up in a ball in an armchair in the Slytherin common room. He had his hands on the daily prophet- the wizarding world’s go to newspaper- when the silence surrounding him was broken.

“They should’ve sorted you into Ravenclaw,” a deep and charming voice said and when Sherlock looked up, Tom Riddle, the suspicious boy from the first night, sat in an armchair next to him. Sherlock swallowed but didn’t move. He didn’t even fold the newspaper back together. The wizards and witches on the front page were moving with more life than Sherlock’s eyes could produce now.

“Hello,” he said eventually.

“Of course, how impolite of me,” the boy said and smiled. He held out his right hand. “Tom Marvolo Riddle, head boy, you don’t have to look so scared.” Sherlock shook his hand involuntarily. He wasn’t scared. At least not scared the way, he was sure Tom Riddle expected him to be.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“So do you agree?”

“With what?” he asked stupidly.

“That you would’ve mad a great Ravenclaw.” Tom Riddle’s eyebrows were raised, as if Sherlock’s answer had already contradicted his original statement.

“Maybe, yes,” Sherlock said, “but I trust the sorting hat’s choice.”

“Wise decision,” Tom Riddle said and nodded. “The need for knowledge is still, of course, not only a Ravenclaw trait. It is the basis every great wizard needs.” Sherlock smiled unsure and finally folded the newspaper in his hands back together. He needed a good grip on something, if he wanted to survive this conversation.

“Yes.”

“And do you want to be one.”

“Of course,” Sherlock eyed him intently, but tried to sit as still as possible. Riddle was clever. He was far more than a match to Sherlock. And although for some it might’ve been clear, because Tom Riddle was 6 years older than Sherlock, it was something new for him. He felt challenged.

“Your parents must be quite proud of such an ambitious young wizard like you.” There it was. The ancestry question. Sherlock didn’t believe that Riddle just asked him these questions for curiosity’s sake, or to make small talk. It was a test. And Sherlock was prepared.

“Oh they’re used to it,” Sherlock said confidently, building a wall of fake facts around him to play. “My brother is quite ambitious. He’s 7 years older than me.”

“Well, you must have had a big role model to live up to then,” Riddle smiled, “What does your brother do now?”

“He is doing an internship for the Ministry. Wants to be Minister of magic one day.” Riddle laughed. It was a cold laugh, but not a criticising one. He seemed to believe Sherlock, although he didn’t care a single bit.

“That’s quite a career. What is his name, maybe I had the pleasure of meeting him here?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said and quickly added, “he was in Ravenclaw.”

Riddle nodded and Sherlock could see in his face that he went through all the names he remembered from other houses. It was unlikely, he thought, that the boy remembered every single student that went to school, but the pensive look on his face made him worry. In the end, he did nothing but nod.

“It was nice talking to you, Sherlock,” he reached out his hand for a handshake, once more. This time, Sherlock grabbed it with more confidence. “And if I may give you some advice, because I know what it is like arriving here without friends-“ Riddle smiled again, “-socialise. It is the way to becoming a great wizard. But I’m sure your brother told you the same."

Sherlock took a breath. He started to like Riddle even less. “You have friends here. And if you really think you do not fit in-“ Tom Riddle was standing now, halfway turned away from Sherlock already. “Please do consider me a friend.” And with that, he walked away to his cheering army of Slytherins.

Though exciting and new, school was school and after a few weeks of opening doors with Alohomora and shooting sparks out of their wands the first years and with that also Sherlock, started to get into a daily grind. At breakfast time owls arrived with letters. Sherlock hated it. Not because he was particularly jealous of his classmates to receive post from their parents. But because it was the one time his imaginary life was vulnerable. There was no one who could send him letters. No one he could send anything to. The Doctor could be God knows where. Probably not even in this galaxy. But no one had noticed so far. Stoked about the sweets they got from their parents and stories from their siblings, Sherlock felt secure in his self-build castle of lies. There was only one thing worrying Sherlock and that was Tom Riddle’s rising interest in him.

It wasn’t just troubling, to Sherlock it was completely inexplicable. He had his eyes on him during breakfast, when they occasionally passed each other in the hallways, at lunch- and dinnertime and of course in the common room. Riddle was not stalking him. At least then, Sherlock would have had a reason to be really worried. But the Hogwarts head boy was polite. Nodding in his direction and smiling, sometimes even cheering him with his drink. It made no sense. There was absolutely no reason why a 17 year old boy could be so keen on being friends with a first year and it was definitely not helping Sherlock’s anxiety about his non existent wizard life. But as uncomfortable as he felt about Riddle’s unwanted attention, he was curious. There really was no reason why the head boy would take an interest in a random first year and Sherlock wanted to find out. He just wished the Doctor would be somewhere near him.

A week later, Riddle went from simple greetings, to conversations between the classes and in the evening. About his favourite subjects, on how his family was doing, what his opinion on the founders was. Riddle was most literally a riddle to Sherlock. One moment he seemed to fit perfectly into the image of the most popular kid at school and the next, he raved over a necklace Salazar Slytherin had supposedly possessed. It was keeping Sherlock up at night and while Victor hectically wrote the last sentences of every piece of homework, Sherlock made notes and scribbles into a notebook, of how everything could be connected. The more Sherlock dove into solving this riddle, the more his homework seemed to suffer. It wasn’t until Victor despairingly asked him, whether he’d finished his Potions essay on Bezoars, that Sherlock realised he’d not even started writing it.

“When’s it due?” he asked his friend, confused, one morning, while spreading butter on a toast.

“Are you okay?” Victor asked him with a worried face.

“Yes. So, when-“ “Today.” Sherlock put down the butter knife.

“Oh,”

“Have you even started it?”

“I think I might have forgotten it, in the common room…” It was a lousy excuse, but Sherlock didn’t want Victor to gain suspicion on why he was so absentminded these days. “I’ll get it, see you in Potions.” Sherlock stuffed the buttered toast with jam into his mouth and grabbed his bag. The way to the common room was short and Sherlock knew, while walking it, that the chances, that he’d actually find a started work between his many textbooks were close to zero, but it was worth a try.

20 minutes later, he stood behind his cauldron, with nothing in his hands. As soon as the class started, it was over and Sherlock stood in the back of the queue to hand in the essay, simply to escape the certain embarrassment. Mumbling the name of whatever student was standing in front of him, Professor Slughorn looked up befuddled, when he faced an empty handed Sherlock.

“Sherlock Holmes, right?”

“Yes Sir.”

“You are one of my best students.” His face was wrinkly from the frown across his forehead.

“I was distracted, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Sherlock apologised and meant no word of it. He wasn’t bored by Hogwarts, but he was bored by doing homework. He could have brewed the craziest potion, he was sure, by only taking one look at the ingredients. But having to write a roll of parchment- whoever came up with this measurement- was simply too time consuming.

“I’ll write it and hand it to you.”

“Yes, I guess that’s what we’ll have to do. Now, this doesn’t happen too often in first year classes. I would even go so far,” he scratched his head at this, “to say that you’re the first to not hand in an essay at this early stage.” Sherlock was quiet. “I must admit, I am a bit disappointed. But well, your schoolwork says you are talented, so I think another chance might be acceptable,” Sherlock’s eyebrows went up. “Maybe, if you feel distracted or if you’re not fully used to writing essays this long, you could ask a classmate, someone in your house. You must have friends. And if no one your age can help you, someone older, like a prefect would surely be willing to lend a hand.” Sherlock relaxed a bit, words already forming in his head.

“Oh yes, I will do that, Professor. I do have a friend in a higher class.” Sherlock said, and it wasn’t even a lie.

“You have?” Professor Slughorn eyed him over the rim of his glasses.

“Yes, his name is Tom Riddle.” he said with faked pride. Slughorn’s expression darkened at once.

“Tom- Tom Riddle did you say?” he repeated the name with cautiousness, as if he was scared, someone might be listening.

“Yes, Sir. Why?” Sherlock asked, now, with genuine interest. Tom Riddle was the favourite of not just every student, but also nearly every teacher. Except for Dumbledore. And now, it seemed, also Slughorn.

“It would be good, for you, maybe… To befriend a different student.” Sherlock could feel the discomfort in the air. He was uncertain of what to do next.

“Why is that, Sir?” he asked, hoping, he didn’t cross a line. Professor Slughorn dodged his eyes and started shuffling papers together on this desk.

“Oh, just… A personal concern. It shouldn’t worry you. But Tom Riddle should surely have other concerns than to teach a young student Potions. Maybe you should keep looking.” He smiled at Sherlock. A forged smile, that even the dumbest person could’ve deciphered and then walked off into the storage room.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

The days grew colder and wetter in the weeks leading up to Halloween. At the Holmes family house, Sherlock had always dressed up as a pirate. He’d even seen pictures of him and his brother dressed as pumpkins, years ago found in a family photo album 2 years ago. He had teased Mycroft about it ever since. At Hogwarts, there was no trick or treating. Instead, there was a humongous dinner with sweets and puddings and cakes. Sherlock was sure it couldn’t be better than all the other dinners he had at Hogwarts- he was honestly wondering how he was not as big as his brother with all the food that was served every day- but his fellow students insisted that this one would be even greater.

He wanted to look forward to it. But Sherlock’s time at Hogwarts had reached a point where he had stopped enjoying the things he learned. The spells to unlock doors and make things fly. The potions to shrink toads and enlarge birds. To set little things on fire and turn matches into needles. He was haunted by nightmares. Of Redbeard and his family. Of past adventures. Of the doctor who had left him in a strange place where he didn’t know anyone. And of Tom Riddle who stalked him, awake and asleep, speaking in riddles and smiling a cold, dead smile that no one but him seemed to notice

So he woke up on a Sunday morning, with sweaty hair clinging to his forehead and a nauseous feeling in his stomach. Sherlock pulled himself out of the bed, holding onto the green curtains for support. Cold feet hit cold ground and he was happy to find his slippers under the bed. Clad in a emerald green bathrobe, he made his way downstairs. On a table next to a sofa were still books piled up from the night before- Sherlock had no luxury to neglect his homework now- waiting to be picked up by him again. But it was not even seven and Sherlock had no urge to do this now. It was a Sunday after all. There was no way he could go back to sleep, so he lounged down on the sofa anyway and picked up his transfiguration textbook. Right in the movement of turning a page, a shadow passed the corner of his eyes and when Sherlock looked to his right, he saw neatly combed black hair leaving the common room. Tom Riddle. There was no way it could’ve been anyone else. In the few months he’d known the boy now, Sherlock had put together an image in his mind of all the things connected to Riddle and secrecy made up most of it. Letting down his feet to the ground again, he ran to the door.

“Sherlock,” a voice behind him said, before he could grab the doorknob. Victor. His classmate, apparently returning from the toilets, stood at the other side of the room. “Wait, are you sneaking outside? Please let me come with you.” Sherlock’s grip at the doorknob grew stronger. He needed to see where Riddle went. He needed to be at least one step further in finding out about the boy that haunted his sleep. Taking someone with him outside would mean letting him in on his plan. But it would also mean an additional pair of eyes to dodge teachers.

“Okay, hurry up,” Sherlock whispered, loud enough for Victor to hear.

They were both in their bathrobes. With pyjamas underneath and their feet in light grey slippers they ran up the stairs to the entrance hall.

“So where are we going?” Victor grinned. Sherlock pitied him a little bit. He was so idiotically excited about something he had no idea of. Sherlock nodded to his left.

“I need to find someone,”

“Who?”

“No idea,” Sherlock lied, “I saw someone sneaking outside and got curious.”

“Outside outside?” Victor asked and looked at the huge wooden doors.

“No, I mean, I don’t know. We need to look around.”

“Well, who was it? What do you think they’re doing?” Sherlock crunched his nose. “Want to find out?” he looked at his friend with a raised eyebrow. Victor beamed. They both ran up the stairs and passed the empty great hall, which was supposed to be filled with decorations in just a few hours. Tom Riddle was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock’s hands and feet grew sweatier with the increasing fear of being caught and the warm inside of fluffy slippers didn’t help. They had just left the moving staircase behind them and walked past a huge window on the 3rd floor, when Sherlock’s eyes caught a moving figure outside on the castle grounds. His feet became still, when he saw what it was.

“What’s there?” Victor’s voice was still too happy for Sherlock to comprehend.

“Nothing,” he swallowed. “Just a dog.”

“Okay…” Victor became unsure, out of a sudden. He probably thought, Sherlock had found a major clue to whatever mystery they were trying to solve, but Sherlock hadn’t. The dog outside just reminded him of Redbeard. He was about to move forward, pushing the memory back, but Victor had other ideas.

“Sherlock!” “What?” “That’s not a dog!” Frowning, Sherlock turned back to the window. He was right. There wasn’t only a dog. There was a tall, dark human being, in the shape of a man, walking into the fog. Tom Riddle. Sherlock’s breath became faster.

“There’s a boy outside.” Sherlock said and looked at Victor from the corner of his eye.

“What?” the confusion in his voice was so audible that Sherlock doubted himself for a moment.

“I’m pretty sure that was the Grim, not a man or a dog, or…” Victor became still and Sherlock dreaded whatever was about to come out of his mouth now.

“What if it’s a werewolf?” “No,” Sherlock shook his head. He wanted to follow Riddle not the mystery of a werewolf or Grim or whatever Victor had on his mind. “No, look. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a dog and then a man, not-“ “He could’ve turned that moment, Sherlock,” Victor was convincing.

Sherlock still thought that his thought process was bonkers, but for all he knew, Tom Riddle could be a werewolf. “And what if it’s not a werewolf who turned into a man, but the Grim?” “That’s even better!” “How is an omen of death better?” Sherlock didn’t believe in death omens. And even if they did exist, how could they affect him? He wasn’t even from this world. Victor bit on his lip. He obviously had no idea what exactly he wanted to do.

But Sherlock did.

“Let’s go outside. I wanna see who that was.” He walked past his friend and ran back to the staircase. “So you think it was the Grim, too?” “No,” Sherlock shouted and then cursed himself for it. It was barely 7 o’clock. “Let’s go, we’ll get caught!” he whispered to Victor and ran off.

They pushed open the tall wooden doors and felt the cold instantly grab their ankles. There was a white, blank wall of fog waiting for them. Sherlock felt Victor’s eyes on him. He let go of the wooden door behind him and heard it fall shut. Without saying another word, both of them walked off into the fog.

Sherlock could feel the coldness and wetness through his slippers. With one hand stretched in front of him, he made his way into the white. He couldn’t see his fingers from time to time and looking down, he realised that the same applied to his legs. Goosebumps appeared on his skin.

“Sherlock,” Victor’s voice was somewhere else. He couldn’t be far away from him. They had gone forward, in a straight line, for quite a while now. Where were they now? They had to have the forbidden forest in front of them soon.

“Sherlock!” He looked around. Victor had been behind him most of the time, but now the voice came from further away.

“Victor?” Sherlock said. He wasn’t sure if shouting was the right way. “Where are you?” No answer came back.

At least, not the one, Sherlock hoped to hear. Instead, a growling reached his ears. The goosebumps on his skin returned and Sherlock held his breath. There it was again, from an indefinable direction. He heard Victor’s voice again, as well, becoming more and more quiet as the boy distanced himself from Sherlock. It didn’t matter now, he was in the midst of a white cloud and could see neither backwards nor forwards. And if Tom Riddle could survive out here with a werewolf, he could too. Unless, of course, Tom Riddle was friends with a werewolf. Or worse, what if he was a werewolf?

You’re an idiot, Sherlock thought. The sun was about to rise. If there was a werewolf, it would be changing back to a human now. With that, Sherlock took a few more steps and nearly crashed into a tree. The collision would’ve been embarrassing if he hadn’t been so scared. He stood there for a moment, hugging the tree, when the growling came again. This time from the woods. Sherlock’s nails dug into the tree’s bark. He pulled himself forward and let his feet do the work. It just couldn’t be a werewolf.

But what if it’s the Grim?

Sherlock nearly stumbled. Roots made the ground uneven and more difficult for shaky feet to walk on. The more steps Sherlock took, the deeper he walked into the forest, the more the fog disappeared and let Sherlock see the trees around him. And there was still a growling coming from somewhere. His eyes flickered from one side to another, trying to identify the source. If he could only see where Tom Riddle went. If he actually went into the forest. Sherlock was about to make another step, when a giant hand grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around. Too surprised to act on it, Sherlock shut his eyes in protection. When he opened them again, the sight before him made him forget to breathe. A dozen orange lights, shaped like triangles were floating in the air. His mouth fell open and it took him over a minute to realise that he was being held by two giant hands on his shoulders.

When he looked up, an old, battered face stared back at him. “Boy, what are you doing here?” he said with a rough voice and a stern face. Sherlock was still frozen. He only started to move, when the gamekeepers dog snuffled his bathrobe and growled a bit. No, Sherlock’s mouth dropped. His eyes wandered up, from the tip of the long brown beard, to the battered face of the Hogwarts gamekeeper. “I’m-“ Sherlock stuttered. The dog next to him had its tongue hanging out and looked at Sherlock with a sad face. Did he actually confuse this dog with a werewolf? Or the Grim? He could’ve buried his face in his hands, but his hands were immovable. Just, when he thought he had a proper excuse on his mind, Victor Trevor came dashing through the woods. “Sherlock, have you found someone? Oh-“ he stopped immediately in-between the floating pumpkins, which were most likely there to be brought up to the castle.

“Come on with me,” the gamekeeper said, “I’ll have to report this to a teacher.” He put his hands on both boys backs and pushed them forward, past the sea of glowing orange pumpkin eyes to the castle.

Sherlock was quite calm, walking up to the school. He was going to be reported to a teacher, so what. Maybe to the headmaster. He couldn’t care less. He had no parents they could write to. Or phone- if they even had a phone here. He was in every rebel’s dream position. Untouchable. Victor, on the other hand, was close to a mental breakdown. Sherlock tried to avoid his glance, that was undoubtedly fixed on him. The white cloud over the ground still hadn’t lifted and they could barely see where they were going. The castle could’ve been anywhere and Sherlock could’ve never guessed its direction, would it not have been for the tall black figure emerging from the fog, like a reaper without his scythe. Tom Riddle.

“Thanks for bringing them, Alastair.” he sounded nearly relieved. “May I take this from here? I will make sure they’ll learn their lesson.” Sherlock send a glance to the game keeper, who seemed slightly confused.

“I caught them in the forbidden forest, they’ll have to do detention-“

“Oh no, of course yes. I will speak to a teacher about this.” The game keeper didn’t seem convinced, his eyes were on Riddle for longer than seemed comfortable, as if to test suspicions. But in the end, he exhaled and looked away. “Good, I know they’re in good hands.” He turned away and walked back into the mist, leaving the three boys standing alone on the bottom of the castle’s entry.

“Follow me,” Riddle said and walked away. Sherlock’s heart beat faster. What were the odds of the Hogwarts Head Boy just casually taking a quick walk outside the castle at 7:30 in the morning and running into two troublemakers? Sherlock had his hands clenched to fists, so hard, his knuckles hurt.

“Where are you gonna take us?” Victor said innocently. Tom Riddle didn’t answer, the way they walked lead back to the dungeons. At least they weren’t going to the headmaster, that much was sure. Sherlock exhaled a little bit. There weren’t many possibilities. The only teacher living down here was Professor Slughorn and Slughorn was not a fan of- they walked past the teacher’s office. Sherlock swallowed. Riddle took them back the same way they had come. Back to the Slytherin common room.

They walked into the room and green light hit their eyeballs, refracted by the water behind the windows. Only few students were up already. Lounging around in their pyjamas, reading and chatting. When Riddle strode in, all their eyes were immediately fixed upon him. But the head boy walked past them, not shooting them a second glance. He stopped right next to an empty corner with a lonely couch and two green armchairs. “You’re free to go,” he said with a distinct air of superiority. Sherlock could see his friend’s face light up. He wondered if he could force his face to do the same. Probably not.

“There’s no reason why two boys should not wander about and discover Hogwarts. Even if it is the forbidden forest.” He winked. “Just don’t tell your teachers about it,” he looked around, “or your fellow students.” He sat down in an armchair and smirked. “I’d rather not have the others taking me for biased. Especially not as a head boy. Those are not qualities that should be found in my position.” Victor nodded ferociously. Sherlock swallowed. They started to move away, back to their dormitories to exchange their bathrobes for real clothing, when Tom Riddle raised his voice once more.

“Sherlock, can you stay for a moment?” Sherlock stopped. Victor, who was already a few feet further away, turned around to look, but continued once he saw Riddles face. “I wanted to talk to you and now seems like the perfect moment. Sit down, please.” He did and dug his fingernails into the sofa’s covering.

“Sherlock, are you familiar with the founder’s history?” Sherlock nodded. Was this a pop quiz? “Of course you are, you come from a respected wizard family.” Riddle smiled maliciously. He was testing Sherlock. No matter if he knew his family history was a lie or not. Something had raised his interest in him and Sherlock could not escape his grip. He nodded. “I don’t know how common this knowledge is, but the founders have all had treasured belongings. Like swords and cups and rings-“

He subtly cupped his right hand with his left, Sherlock noticed. A green ring peeked out between the fingers covering it, Sherlock noticed.

“And I have this, lets call it fascination, with these artefacts. In fact, I started collecting them.” Sherlock nodded again, slowly starting to think that Tom Riddle had really just called him here to have a chat about his favourite past time. Collecting rubbish.

“There’s one I need, one I badly want, and I cannot seem to find it. And I started to think that you, coming from a good family with roots back to the founders themselves, could surely be a massive help to me.”

“Erm-“

“Of course, if it is your family’s property, I won’t take it from you, but maybe your father or mother might want to sell it. But don’t worry about this now, I don’t want to take anything from you,” he smiled slyly, “but let me give you this,” he handed Sherlock a folded piece of parchment. The edge of the paper clearly showed that it had been torn out of a book. He unfolded it and his breath faltered. His body stopped halfway in a shrug and Sherlock hoped dearly that Tom Riddle was rubbish in body language, because he’d just done all the stupid things to raise his suspicion.

“I know nothing of this,” Sherlock said calmly and folded it back together. Riddle clearly didn’t like the answer. He smiled again and looked down.

“Well, I hope you can help me finding it, then,”

“Why?”

“Like I said-“

“No,” Sherlock interrupted him, the piece of paper still clenched between his thumb and index finger, “why should I help you?”

“Because there is detention waiting for you. No one knows why you went to the forbidden forest in the early morning, but I am sure I can enlighten some teachers about that. After all,” he smirked, “I am the head boy. And there are some quite interesting methods available, that have not been used in quite some time.”

Tom Riddle stood up.

“I’m sure you’ll be of help, Sherlock. If not, the deep ends of the dungeons will see you then.” He walked away, leaving a distressed Sherlock sitting in the corner with a piece of paper in his hands. He clenched it in his fist. He didn’t want to give Riddle the satisfaction of helping him and he didn’t believe he’d be tortured in the dungeons either.

However, Sherlock knew he had no other choice but to help him. Because he needed to know why Tom Riddle wanted the artefact depicted on the loose page so badly. He’d seen it before, yes. But not in a book. He’d held it in his hands on the first night he ran away with the Doctor.


	9. AUTUMN of 1992 pt. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Doctor Who or Sherlock or Harry Potter
> 
> Also, I bent the rules in the Harry Potter Universe a little bit

The Halloween dinner had left all students lying in their beds with bellies close to bursting. And since it was a Sunday, waking up the next day was tiresome. Getting out of the bed, with feet on cold ground, most Slytherin boys in Sherlocks dormitory put their school wear on, whining about how tired and full they were. Getting his clothes on was a work out and Sherlock wondered if he would be so much fatter by the time he got back, that his parents couldn’t recognise him anymore. Classes started with Herbology and by the time they’d moved on to Defence against the Dark Arts, the piece of paper Sherlock had gotten from Tom Riddle, was burning in his pockets. Not literally of course, although Sherlock did have his hand around it as often as possible, which gave the paper a nice, warm, comforting temperature. This was the only comfortable thing about it. His thoughts surrounded it constantly and as soon as class was over and lunch break had started, he ran off to the library.  
He spent his hour long break hidden behind piles of books about ancient artefacts of the wizarding families of Britain and The magical power of skulls - and their use in potions. Whatever use that could be to him- although he had to admit that the skulls looked nice, indeed. He left the books where they were in the end and went back to class only to return in the evening. This went on for 7 more days. Sherlock was not a stranger to research. He had to do research with his classmates all the time. On ingredients for potions, on counter curses, on how to turn a mouse into a tinderbox. But now, he had to do it alone. Which wasn’t bad, just slower. And it gave him an excuse to hide from Tom Riddle. And after a few days he had found out a number of things.  
Firstly, that it was ridiculous to search in a book for a skull shaped pendant when the only source he had, was a torn out page from probably said book. And secondly, that it must’ve belonged to not only an ancient family, but a founding family. Salazar Slytherin’s himself. “Found anything interesting?” A blunt voice asked, shuffling books aside to see Sherlocks face. Tom Riddle sat down opposite to him. Sherlock cleared his throat.  
“Yes, er, the pendant belonged to Slytherin,” he stated. Tom Riddle was mildly impressed.  
“Quite right.” Sherlock’s left hand had the original page tightly in its grip. “But I am more interested in where to find it.”  
“Well, I haven’t found out anything about-“  
“Because you haven’t been looking.” Riddle took advantage of the fact that Sherlock was as light as the small heap of books before him and picked him up from his chair.  
“Come on,” he put him back on the ground and shoved him forward with a hand on his back. They walked through the entire library and Tom Riddle took out random books from every shelf, balancing them in the air with a spell. Books about the founders and genealogy joined the pile, together with 150 incredible mansions of our ancestors. When they reached a thin chain separating the students’ from the restricted section of the library, Riddle stepped over it, self confidently. He nodded in Sherlock’s direction, telling him to follow. He did. The restricted section was not so different from the rest, but of course, a book shelf never displayed the true immensity of power its books held. How could it? But yet, there was a certain aura of danger around it. Maybe, it was only because it was forbidden. Some of the books’ spines didn't even have titles written on it- how could anyone ever find what they were looking for like this? And some had their titles written in symbols and glyphs of languages, Sherlock hadn’t known, existed. Sherlock was tempted to take one of these books off the shelf- they surely must be more interesting than what he learned in his lessons- but Tom Riddle’s stare kept him from doing so. In the end they returned with only two books about the Secrets of the House Slytherin and one which looked like it included maps.

Sherlock slouched down on the chair he’d sat on earlier.

“I heard the dungeons are pretty cold these days,” Tom Riddle said plainly. “And I am sure if you spent some hours down there you might get something worse than a cold.” His left eyelid twitched. “You might meet some things worse, as well, and I know you’re not so fond of ghosts.” Sherlock tried to keep a blank face, but he knew exactly what Riddle was doing. He was threatening him. “I really need to find this pendant, and these books will help you, help me find it.” Sherlock opened his mouth but shut it very quickly. He was missing a clever answer. “It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if someone found a book about dark magic in your bag or bedroom?” He walked away.

There was absolutely no way of finding it. Over the weeks to come Sherlock had read every book on Salazar Slytherin and his descendants, up to the late 18th century. He could name his great great grandsons and even his favourite breed of dog which had apparently been the Irish wolf hound. He knew where his family had lived and where his granddaughters went to socialise. He had even found several more pictures of the pendant. It didn’t say where it was last sighted or if it had any magical powers, but its image reminded Sherlock painfully of the one time he’d held it in his hands. He’d never felt like this before. This and the constant fear of finding a book of dark magic in his bed or suitcase or being told by a teacher to attend detention, drove him mad. He kept his mouth shut at most occasions, always did his homework and tried to be seen outside as little as possible in fear the game keeper might see him. It did a lot good to his marks, but very little to his mind. So, when a letter arrived mid December, Sherlock was nearly too anxious to open it.

It turned out to be from the Doctor. And it was an invitation to see him around Christmas in Diagon Alley.

It did make things easier, Sherlock realised. He spoke more often and suddenly felt normal again among his fellow classmates. He told everyone who asked, that he’d be visiting his family for just a few days. Not long, but at least something. The weight of Tom Riddle’s task was still on him, but Sherlock felt like the Doctor’s invitation made him stand tall again, instead of being crushed by it. For some, inexplicable reason, Tom Riddle didn’t seem to mind his happy attitude. Which, again, made Sherlock worry more. For weeks and weeks, Riddle had eyed Sherlock suspiciously, had given him sleepless nights and taken away any appetite he’d had. But at least it had been understandable. But what in Merlin’s name was the reason for his change in character now? He hadn’t asked Sherlock about his progress on the issue in weeks and two days before Christmas he even asked him, where he would spend his holidays.  
“At home, with my parents,” Sherlock answered. “That’s good to know.” No threat, no ugly remark on how slow he was. “Yes, erm, I’ll ask them about the pendant, maybe the know something.” “Oh don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll figure it out with time.” He smiled. It was a false smile of course, but it wasn’t sly or demeaning. It was like a silent threat. A threat, some people wouldn’t even understand. But exactly this let the hairs on Sherlocks arms stand up.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

Two days later, he sat on the train to King’s Cross, London. He had read about it, of course, and had heard of it from others, but the thought that a train brought the students to this magical school was strange nevertheless. An ancient one, too. Sitting in the compartment, sipping on tea, he and Victor exchanged memories of the Christmases spent in their families. Real and imagined ones. Sherlock told him, that he’d be picked up by his uncle, the only lie he could think of since the Doctor didn’t resemble him even a bit. And he also didn’t behave like him. As soon as Sherlock left the train, the man threw his arms up in the air and shouted “Back again!” Sherlock didn’t reply, just let go of his trunk and jumped into his friend’s arms. “There you are! Is everything good?” he asked and let go of Sherlock by putting him back on the ground. “I’m good,” he lied and smiled at his friend, picking up his trunk again. “So where are we going again?” “Diagon Alley, where wizards and witches buy stuff.” “Stuff?” “School stuff, wizarding stuff, pubs and cafés and-“ “Doctor, when are we?” Sherlock asked while they strode through the station to the exit. Or more, where Sherlock had originally thought, the tube was. But everything looked different. “Doctor? This is not 1992, is it?” “What do you mean?” The time lord looked at his watch, as if it would tell him the year. “Why would you say that?” he walked around and turned, licking his finger and holding it up into the air. “It tastes a bit different than what I remember, but I can’t find anything too troubling-“ “Doctor,” and this time, Sherlock pointed at a vintage print on a wall, “if this is 1992, why is everyone scared of Hitler?”

Posters, the ones Sherlock had so far only seen in his brother’s history books were everywhere. On walls, on shop windows, on lanterns. The Doctor was used to landing his ship in the wrong time zone, but this did shock even him. “I didn’t intend to-“ he scratched his head and and then held it with both hands, as if to prevent it from falling off. “It doesn't matter. Let’s head to Diagon Alley.” But the Doctor didn’t seem to find it okay. And after they’d walked down the first street outside of King’s Cross, Sherlock knew why. London was in pieces. Blocks of concrete of destroyed houses were lying around, the streets were covered in dust and debris. On people’s faces, Sherlock could see the despair and tiredness, the war had brought and he was glad when they had finally reached the Leaky Cauldron, which was apparently the gateway to the wizarding world. The door, black and solid, showed itself to the two of them, when they got closer and opened at just the touch of the Doctor’s hand. “How come you can see all of this, when you are not a wizard?” Sherlock asked the thought that came to his head all of a sudden. “Neither are you, strictly speaking.” Sherlock frowned. “But I can do magic.” “You can do magic, because in this particular universe, you adapted to the changes. If we were now in a world were every one could read everyones mind, or speak to animals, you’d be able to do the same.” “And you can do the same?” “I am a time lord, I can do everything.” “Except navigate your time machine?” The Doctor shot him a hurt look.

They ordered two hot chocolates and sat down next to a crackling fire. Sherlock had his feet rested on a footrest next to the Doctor’s armchair and his eyes closed. “What are you sleeping for? Tell me about Hogwarts! What have you learned so far? Have you gotten lost in the castle? Explored the forbidden forest? Have you-“ “I nearly got detention because of the forest,” Sherlock interrupted his friend. “But you didn’t?” “No, the head boy never reported it to the teachers.” “Wow, nice head boy.” Sherlock laughed coldly. He most certainly didn’t want to talk or even think of Tom Riddle now. “Haven’t met your nice orphan boy, either.” “Because it’s the wrong year.” No sorry. Sherlock looked into his hot chocolate. “Doctor?” he asked after a minute of silence, “do you still have the pendant you’ve shown me 4 years ago?” The time lord looked up with big eyes and then, to Sherlock’s surprise, pulled it out of his jacket’s inner pocket. Sherlock was mesmerised. He took it from the man and held it close to his chest. Something, whatever it was, was stronger than before. The last time he held it, he’d felt protective of it, but he’d still given it back to the Doctor. This time, a tug in Sherlock’s chest choked his lungs and let him barely breathe and his right hand clung to the skull completely. “Is everything okay?” the Doctor asked and reached out to Sherlock. “No,” Sherlock tore away his hand and leaned back. “No.” The Doctor stopped, with fear in his eyes, his hand only inches away from Sherlock’s. “What is it?” he asked cautiously. Sherlock didn’t know. He couldn’t answer the Doctor, instead, he held the skull close to his chest and opened his hand.

A green glow erupted out of his hands and reflected itself on Sherlock’s chin. He clasped his hand together again and looked at the Doctor, afraid. “Why were you asking?” the time lord asked with a raised eyebrow. “Some student is collecting ancient artefacts and asked me to help him find this.” “Why was he looking for it?” “I don’t know, he didn’t say. But what bad could he do with it?” The Doctor’s face was visibly troubled. Then, he stood up and put his coat around his shoulders. “What are you doing?” “We’re gonna get it examined.” He reached his hand out to Sherlock, who took it with his left, the skull still safely tugged in his right.

Thankfully, Diagon Alley was safely protected from the Muggle war that had been going on. Witches and wizards were strolling hectically through shops, trying to get last minute Christmas presents for their loved ones.

“Where did you find it? The pendant, I mean?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “In a museum. It was on a space station, I forgot in which system. I was on an adventure, met burglar who wanted to rob it of a skull. I got dragged into it, accidentally stole the wrong skull and look where it got me.” The Doctor smiled and Sherlock held the pendant closer to his heart. “How could it get there? How could an artefact that is Salazar Slytherin’s, just appear in a museum in space. Someone must’ve put it there.” “Yes, in fact, that is what I was wondering.”  
“About what?” Sherlock looked at him, face torn into a frown. But whatever it was that the Doctor had on his mind, he didn’t let in on.

They didn't know where exactly to ask, so they just went to every shop. The saleslady in Flourish and Blotts knew absolutely nothing and described it to decor used on ancient tombstones of a wizard’s guild in Northern Ireland, but the assistant in the Apothecary could tell them, it was made out of a basilisk’s tooth, a material rarer than anything he’d ever seen. He took it in his hands, turned it around and held it under a magnifying glass. Sherlock felt sicker with every second. The boy’s sweaty fingers were touching its surface, scratching the skull on several places and when he tried to scratch off some of the material, Sherlock let go of the wooden counter he had his fingers dug into previously and snatched it from him, shouting a loud “No!” Both, the Doctor and the assistant looked at him, startled. Even more so, when Sherlock turned on his heels and ran outside. “What’s going on?” the Doctor carefully asked, when he found Sherlock breathing heavily, leaning against the wall. “I feel sick,” he started, “and I don’t want anyone to have it… or to touch it.” He looked down at his closed hand. It was a ridiculous fact, so ridiculous not even the Doctor knew what to make of it. “I had it for 4 years,” he held out his hand, “will you give it to me?” Sherlock swallowed. He’d had no problem giving it to the Doctor 4 years ago, so why now? His thumb caressed the eye sockets of the tiny skull. He stretched out his hand. “Okay.”

They went on. There weren’t many shops the Doctor deemed suitable for information, and in the end they stopped at what Sherlock found rather unfitting for their undertaking- Ollivanders. The little bell over the door rang when the two of them walked in and Sherlock felt like he could smell the dust on every pile of boxes covering the shelves. There were a thousand of them. If not more. How could someone pick out the right wand for the right person? And was there even something as the right wand? “Ah, hello Mister. I remember your face,” a hoarse voice said coming from behind a wall of little boxes. Sherlock tried to catch a look, but he couldn’t. When he turned around, the Doctor was smiling. “Ah yes, Sir,” the Doctor clapped his hands together and then put one arm around Sherlock. “This is the young lad I bought the wand for.” “Ahhh,” a man with white hair and beard emerged behind the wall of boxes. “Ahhh yes, yes. Pine and phoenix feather and 13 3/4 inches long. I was sceptical, to be honest,” he shoved his glasses back up his nose with his middle finger. “because you weren’t there to be chosen by your wand. But, may I ask, just for a quick demonstration?” Sherlock looked at the Doctor, unsure. His friend nodded, whereupon he pulled out his wand and pointed at one of the boxes. “Wingardium Leviosa.” Both, the Doctor’s and Mr. Ollivander’s face broke out in a grin, when the box detached itself from its companions below and floated into the air. “Splendid,” Mr Ollivander said. “Splendid! But… I don’t understand… If everything’s running alright, why are you here?” “There’s a matter that arose, disconnected from wands, but we hoped still, that you could help us.” He pulled out the artefact from his pocket. Mr. Ollivander frowned. “How can I help you with this?” “We are a bit curious about it. Found it in our attic. We have already figured out that it belonged to Slytherin and that it’s made out of a Basilisk’s tooth, but is there anything else you can find out?” “Well,” Mr. Ollivander held it against the light. “On first sight, I cannot really decipher anything, but if I may try-“ he pointed his wand at the skull and mumbled a spell. There was nothing visible going on, but the wand maker made a noise of pain and let the pendant fall, which then landed safely in Sherlock’s hand. “It burned me,” Ollivander said surprised and looked at his hand. A red patch in shape of a skull was indeed visible. “Did the spell what it was supposed to do?” the Doctor asked. Ollivander nodded weakly. “In a way, yes.” “And?” “I would be very careful with this particular… artefact, Mister. It seems to me that it’s been bewitched with dark magic.” “Dark magic?” Sherlock asked blankly. “Yes, my boy, dark magic.” “Is there a place where we can find out more than just that?” Both adults looked at Sherlock confused. “Well, this cannot be everything, can it?” “Well, I suppose there is,” the wand maker said carefully as if he was scared of giving away too much. “Where?” “Knockturn Alley, but-“ “No,” the Doctor interrupted him. “No, let’s go.” He walked out the door and held it open, expecting Sherlock to follow. But Sherlock wasn’t sure if he should move. “What is so bad about this pendant?” He could see the wand maker clearly struggle with himself, shuffling his feet and then scratching his head. “This… pendant… It’s bad. It’s dark magic and it’s darker than most things I have come across. And I have seen many things in my life.” He looked sad. “It would be better to contact an auror about this-“ “Sherlock” “Thank you,” Sherlock said, as the Doctor’s face grew darker and walked out the door, before Mr. Ollivander could finish the sentence.

It had started raining heavily meanwhile and Sherlock and the Doctor were walking closely to the buildings to prevent getting wet. Diagon Alley had emptied, and the sun was already about to go down, of which they couldn’t see much since it was raining. But the lanterns along the street were starting to be lit and so the rain was reflected on the cobblestones that made the floor look like Christmas lights. They were halfway back to the Leaky Cauldron when Sherlock stopped. “Doctor,” he called and made the time lord a few feet ahead of him stop. “What?” “I want to see someone in Knockturn Alley.” The time lord’s expression changed. “No!” “Why not?” The time lord walked back the few steps he’d walked past Sherlock. “Knockturn Alley is not a good place. Even if they can help us, they will expect something in return or they’ll want to keep the pendant. And you don’t know what they can do with it.” “But it’s worth a shot.” “No, it’s not.” The Doctor turned again and started walking forward, but Sherlock was not done with it yet. He didn’t care. There was something to find out and he would find out. He stuck the skull deeper into his pocket and ran off to his right, away from the friendly looking building and wet, sparkling cobblestones, into a narrow alley with a crooked sign at the start. Knockturn Alley, it said and the finger at the tip of the wooden board pointed slightly downwards. An unhappy coincidence, due to the fact that a 13 year old girl ran into the wall chasing her brother. But to Sherlock, who stared at the eerie buildings down the alley, it looked more like a sign straight down to hell. 

The cobblestones were still the same of course. But here there was no light. Or at least, very little. The shops all looked the same. In Diagon Alley, there was a way of differentiating between a clothes shop, a book shop and the occasional barber. Here, Sherlock could’ve sworn, none of these things existed. Ancient symbols embellished the fronts of many buildings and in the windows skeletons of snakes and severed hands were displayed. It was interesting and frightening and Sherlock knew that he would’ve enjoyed this place a lot more, if he’d been completely alone. But this elderly woman with only one eye that kept staring at him through her stringy hair, holding a black toad in her hands, or the bearded man at the entrance of what seemed to be a pub, they made him uneasy. Just like Tom Riddle did. And right now, he preferred Riddle to these strangers. He snuck into a shop as soon as he could, when the stringy hair lady started moving his way.

Borgin and Burke’s was empty. Thankfully, the only person in here was the man at the till who looked unimpressed at Sherlock. Maybe, because he thought that the dark haired boy with wet hair and a depressed expression was probably in the right place. “What do you need?” The man asked and looked at Sherlock with vigilant eyes, creeping over the edge of his newspaper. “I’ve got a question,” Sherlock said and walked up to the counter, pulling the pendant out of his jacket. “Do you know what that is? Or what it can do?” The eyes of the man grew bigger, when he saw the emerald glistening inside its bone made case. He took it from Sherlock and eyed it intently. “Boy, where did you get that from.” “I found it, in our attic, it’s a family heirloom.” He laughed. “Don’t tell me more of this nonsense. You stole this, haven't you?” “No, it’s mine.” “Yours,” the man was really laughing now. “Does your father know that your running around with his valuables?” “I’m not.” “I think, this will be surely better preserved in my hands.” Mr Burke or Borgin, Sherlock didn’t know and didn’t care, closed his hand around the skull and opened a drawer with another. Sherlock panicked. He leaped over the counter and grabbed the pendant out of the man’s hands. Escaping his unbelieving eyes, Sherlock turned on his heels and ran back out into the rain.

The raindrops landing on his head were heavy and cold and Sherlock’s breathing became harder with every second. He stopped after he’d left a few shops between him and Borgin and Burke’s and leaned against the wall. The pendant was now around his head- if someone wanted to take it from him, they’d have to murder him first. Behead him or strangle him. Whatever this artefact was. He couldn’t give it to Tom Riddle. “This is a shiny, pretty stone, my dear, may I hold it?” Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard a high pitched voice talk next to him. The lady with the black toad- now it was sitting on her head, under a hood- looked at him, no, it, with sparkling eyes. “No thanks,” Sherlock said and moved backwards. But backward’s was only a wall. If the lady would try anything, any attempt to steal the pendant or hurt him, Sherlock swore he’d run her over. Thankfully, a sound of releasing brakes rang out, and Sherlock closed his eyes in gratefulness, knowing that he was safe. 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

The Doctor was mad at him. But not as mad as he was relieved to see Sherlock alive and well. As well as one could be who ran through pouring rain. The Doctor sat him down and put a blanket over his shoulders, lending him comfort by sitting by his side.

Sherlock was weeping. He had his arms wrapped around his knees, with the leather string of the pendant between his fingers. “What’s wrong with me?” “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” The Doctor’s hands were resting on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I don’t want this anymore.” The time lord moved his right hand slowly to Sherlock’s fingers and took the pendant from him. He let go, very reluctantly. “I can’t give it to him.” “You don’t have to, I’ll keep it with me in the TARDIS.” Sherlock nodded and pulled his knees closer to him. In the background, he heard the Doctor flip his usual switches and the blue box left Knockturn Alley and its eerie shops behind. The time lord walked to the doors and peeked outside. “All safe and sound in Hogwarts.” “What?” “I brought you back four days later. Everyone will think you’re back from your holiday.” “I don’t really want to go back,” Sherlock said and looked sad-eyed at his friend. “You don’t have to,” Sherlock stood up and grabbed his trunk. He meant it to be a graceful move but instead he fell over while doing so. “Dammit!” “Are you okay?” the Doctor raised his eyebrows and took a step closer to Sherlock. “No, stop.” “What?” “Stop telling me, I can do whatever I want. Go back or not. I can’t.” He spoke with such certainty, the Doctor was taken aback. “Why?” “I have to finish this.” “Finish what? You know where the pendant is, you know it’s safe with me and this boy won’t find it.” “I want to know what he’s up to.” Sherlock dragged his trunk to the doors. “Wait,” the Doctor called before Sherlock could’ve gotten out of the TARDIS. “Take this-“ he handed him a mobile phone. It was a lot smaller and handier than the ones he’d seen on TV commercials and the antenna was missing. “And give me a call, if you need anything.” The time lord smiled weakly and Sherlock nodded, before making his way back to Hogwarts.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

Thankfully, Tom Riddle was not there when Sherlock arrived. So, he could dodge the question his sudden return might have raised. The students that were there weren’t friends of his, so Sherlock took the time to work on his homework, something he rarely liked to do- but it gave him peace. Every day, he pulled more books and parchment out and put done homework back into his trunk. The modern mobile phone was meanwhile still stuck in-between trousers, where Sherlock hoped it would stay. But the peacefulness in which he got to work on his school stuff, faded, when on the 30th, Tom Riddle gracefully swept himself up on the window sill Sherlock was sitting on and crossed his legs. “Nice to see you, what are you reading?” Sherlock looked up from his book but didn’t say a word. But his eyes wouldn’t leave Tom Riddle’s stare either. “Ah, homework, I see,” Riddle said when he peeked a look on the book’s title. “Hope you worked just as hard on our little pendant problem, like you do on The growth and nurture of toad-eating plants.” Sherlock felt a muscle on his forehead twitch. He couldn’t control it. “I went to Diagon and Knockturn Alley during my holiday,” Sherlock said, turning the truth around as he liked. “Tried to find some artefacts. They had nothing like it.” “Maybe you haven’t looked hard enough.” Tom Riddle’s stare was like ice. His grey eyes became nearly green in the light emitted by the windows next to them. The staring contest was interrupted when Sherlock felt a cold skin on his fingers. One look down and he screamed.

A snake, long and black, with scaly skin, slithered next to him. Its head was raised, two black eyes fixed on his petrified face, and a tongue darted out. Sherlock was standing on the broad window sill meanwhile and and with one leap he jumped over Tom Riddle’s crossed legs and the snake next to them. He was scared. So scared, he missed the whisper Riddle said to the snake. One, that apparently calmed the reptile down. “No need to be so scared,” he said while reaching with his hand out to the snake. “What?” Sherlock breathed and looked disgusted at Riddle who now petted the snake. “This is just someone’s pet, no need to be afraid of it. After all, the snake is the symbol of Slytherin.” But Sherlock didn’t care. The memories of his encounter in the pirate’s cave four years ago where still too vivid. The bite marks on his wrist, although completely healed, had left a scar. An internal one more than a physical. Taking another step closer to the snake made him sick, so Sherlock left his book where it was and went off, not sending Riddle another glance.

The next day, Riddle was gone. It was his birthday, apparently. According to what Sherlock had heard from other Slytherins, the ones who claimed to be his bosom friends. He could have been visiting family. For a birthday celebration. But Sherlock suspected none of this. Tom Riddle must’ve had gone away to search for the pendant. The pendant the Doctor had, safely, in his TARDIS, or so, Sherlock hoped. There should be no reason to worry, Sherlock told himself, except for the fact, that he’d disappointed and angered the most powerful boy in his school. But what bad could come out of that?

One day later, he had his answer.

The first of January started with a loud noise coming from downstairs. The Slytherin common room was a giant party. Green bunting and balloons were everywhere and a three layer cake with black and green icing and green birthday candles was placed on a couch table. The group of students that Tom Riddle called friends, which consisted mostly of the entire 7th and 6th year of Slytherin students, with a few 5th and 4th years in between, stood around it. And in their midst, of course was Riddle, a smug smile on his lips, leaning against a tall boy with greasy hair. He was amused and Sherlock could have called it genuinely happy, hadn’t there been the usual coldness in his eyes. There was something more, he thought, about the way he held himself. Somewhat more up straight, confident, triumphant. Sherlock was about to make his way past them, to walk to the Great Hall for breakfast, but the head boy’s voice stopped him. “Sherlock, mate, stay,” Tom Riddle said and his whole gang turned around. This was what a gazelle must feel, when accidentally running into a lion’s den. “Have some cake,” Riddle said an held a plate with a giant piece of chocolate cake out to him. Sherlock took it, warily. “Thanks.” “Don’t thank me, you’ve been a great friend. And I don’t have that many first year friends,” Riddle smiled widely, teeth showing and raised his glass of butter beer to him. His friends around him didn’t exactly knew how to react. Some of them were just as confused as Sherlock, who just nodded and turned around and then started running as soon as he was out of the common room.

Two hours had passed and Sherlock was still sitting at the Slytherin table. The last students who had appeared for breakfast had now left as well and Sherlock was the only one left, with his empty plate before him and the chocolate cake to his right. Or so it had been, just two minutes ago. Curiously, the empty plate in front of him had disappeared. Something, Sherlock had never seen before, due to the fact that he had always left the hall early. Tom Riddle had a plan and Sherlock did not. The only thing he had was a most likely poisoned birthday cake from his enemy. He dug the fork inside it and shoved it away. He could see through so many things and so many people. In the last months he had figured out, only by observing, what his teacher’s private lives and reading habits were like. And about Professor Slughorn, even his favourite sweets. But Tom Riddle was a riddle. Sherlock was used to people being friendly only to gain something for themselves. It was natural. But he had been no help to him finding the pendant. So what was left to win from this friendship? In his experience, if there was something, some outcome that hadn’t imagined, it always turned out worse than what he’d thought. Sherlock stood up. If he couldn’t get ahead of Riddle, he could at least avoid him.

The plan was to hide in the library. Sherlock didn’t like it. It was cowardly and boring. But he had no idea what to expect when he would return to the common room. Riddle was there. He smashed his foot into the bookshelf. “Silence!” The librarian’s voice sounded over the rows of shelves and a girl on the other side of the room looked at him judging. “Sorry,” he whispered, but didn’t mean it. Spending the whole day in the library was fun for some people. But being forced to do so, was torture. He had a rough plan. In the evening, around dinner time when everyone was gone, he’d sneak out and head back to the common room, get the phone and call the Doctor. He was not gonna stay here for any longer. It was harder, than he originally thought. When the sun started setting, it was still 3 hours until dinner would start and Sherlock was already starving. He was sitting in a corner, surrounded by books he’d started reading and then halfway finished and had his arms crossed around his legs. It was just when the thought of the left chocolate cake started to torment him, when the few students in the library started to walk off to dinner in the Great Hall. Sherlock slowly made his way down with them. His stomach hurt so much, every step hurt. In the end, his hopes that the common room was deserted were nearly fulfilled. Only one boy, a 2nd year student, was there. Sherlock ran past him, not shooting him another glance. “Hey, hey, wait!” a shy voice said behind him. He turned around. The boy had brownish hair, a bit lighter than his own, and brown eyes. The square glasses with thick lenses in them seemed to magnify his eyes ridiculously. “What?” Sherlock asked, ruder than he wanted to. “Erm, Tom Riddle wants me to… to send you a message.” Sherlock’s brain flared up. His chest felt so tight, he wondered how he was still breathing. “Yes?” “He wants to meet you, today- no, tonight. At midnight. In the 3rd floor boys’ bathroom. You need to come alone.” The boy shoved his glasses up on his nose with his index finger, which slightly trembled. “I need to go, sorry,” he then said in a high voice and ran off. “No, wait, what?” “I don’t know more, sorry, sorry,” he ran faster and before Sherlock could catch up with him, the boy was out of the common room. Frustrated, he let his hands run through his hair and pulled on it furiously. “Arrgh,” kicking bookshelves or even armchairs would do no good now. There was no way, Sherlock would go up to the bathroom this night. Of this he was sure. He ran up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory and kicked his trunk open with such a force, the bed shook when its one half hit it. Used underwear and pyjamas and a pair of muggle jeans covered the most important item of this suitcase. And when Sherlock pulled out the worn black, insignificant looking sock he was looking for, it was empty. The mobile phone the Doctor had given to him, was gone.

Sitting on the floor, with his back against the bed, Sherlock considered the possibilities he had. There was no way to contact the Doctor on such short notice. The only way he could get the time lord to get here, was by wishful thinking. Which wasn’t Sherlock’s best option. Fleeing Hogwarts was another one, but there was nowhere to go. By the looks of it, the castle was somewhere in the Scottish highlands. And there was something else bothering Sherlock- the sheer prospect of giving up and running away. He had no idea what Riddle wanted from him. Sure, his mind was running wild on all the possibilities how the boy could murder him, but there was no apparent clue on why. Sherlock pulled himself up from the floor and grabbed a loose piece of parchment off his bedside table that was held there in place by an empty cup of hot chocolate. Using one of the bed posts for support, he wrote a message. 

Doctor,  
if you get this, please try and find me in the right year (1944, midnight, between the 1st and 2nd of January). The boys’ bathroom, 3rd floor. I’m in trouble.  
Sherlock

He was not giving up. At least not yet. If things went bad, he’d still have the Doctor knowing where he was. And if there was any chance of figuring out what Riddle had planned, it would be tonight.

Sherlock ran up the walk to the owlery and stuck his note to the most reliable looking owl he could find. The address was clear.

The Doctor  
TARDIS

Those where the only words written on the piece of paper. And Sherlock desperately hoped it would be enough. God only knew how the owl could find a man that for all he knew could be in space, but it was his only way of finding the Doctor and Sherlock took it. Right after posting the note, he ran back to the castle. He was not going to the bathroom at midnight. He was going there now. If he was running into this battle, he wanted to be there before the villain arrived. So Sherlock settled himself in a bathroom stall, three hours before Tom Riddle would arrive. 

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

Sherlock was sure, if he’d think back on his childhood as an adult one day, this day would go down in history as the day of waiting. There was no chance that he’d have to go through this hell twice in his life. Everything was so incredibly quiet that Sherlock was sure, Tom Riddle had only played him, to get him out of bed and into trouble, but 5 minutes to midnight, the lights went on. “Lumos,” the voice, irrevocably belonging to the head boy, said. Sherlock held his breath. He wished he could just see through the cubicle’s wall, judging on sounds, it was close to impossible to figure out what Riddle was about to do. The footsteps outside signified that he was clearly busy walking around, so Sherlock took his chance and opened the door just a bit. Tom Riddle was walking along the walls, casting charms against them, that seemed invisible and let the stones vibrate. At least visually. But that wasn’t what caught Sherlock’s eyes. It was the floating object right in the middle. The small, ivory coloured skull with an embedded emerald, emitting green light around it. Sherlock lost his grip on the door and tumbled out. It was his luck that just in this moment, when his body hit the ground and the door smashed against the wall next to it, a voice outside let itself hear. “Riddle, what are you doing?” 

The Ravenclaw student, Sherlock thought he could remember him being a prefect, walked confidently through the mysterious wall of charms Riddle had cast around the bathroom. “I’m the head boy, Castor, I can do whatever I want.” Sherlock wished he could see Riddle’s face. He was sure, in this moment he was not even half as confident as he usually was. “Yeah, running around in the castle at night. Sure. Do what pleases you. But it does interest me a little bit, why you have an ancient magical object, that looks suspiciously like something out of a shop for dark magic, floating in the middle of a soundproof room.” “Research.” The snarky smile was so audible in his voice, Sherlock didn’t need to see his face this time. “And the boy on the floor behind you?” Riddle froze and when he turned his head around, Sherlock could not keep himself from smirking at him. Tom Riddle closed his eyes in defeat. Ten seconds long, Sherlock thought he would surrender. Raise his hands or at least walk away, leaving Sherlock alone. Maybe the Ravenclaw would have reported him to the headmaster, with Sherlock as a witness. Those were the only thoughts that fitted into the 10 seconds of peace and then, Riddle charged at his classmate. A red light shot out of his wand like a lightning bolt. Castor, the Ravenclaw prefect sent a counter curse in the last second, preventing the light from hitting him. Only a vein on his forehead showed the immense strain it took on him. And then, the light was gone. Both wizards walked around the circular room, sending curses at each other, most of them missed their targets, but once in a while a ray of light hit the other one and Castor, more often then Riddle, was writhing in pain. Riddle’s eyes were black. The blackest thing in the room lighted up by blue and red and yellow. The colours were reflected on the magical shield around them and when the two of them stood only a few feet away from Sherlock, he grabbed his wand. There was only one spell that he knew, would definitely work. He could not hurt, or forbid, kill anyone, but if he wanted to contribute just a little bit to this battle, he knew the one spell that could knock out Tom Riddle. Ignoring his sweaty fingers on the brown wand, he tried to keep his trembling hand as still as possible when he pointed it at the boy, shouting Petrificus Totalus. White light emerged and Tom Riddle moved backwards while the Ravenclaw took a step forwards, putting himself in the line of shooting. The spell hit him in the same moment as Tom Riddle shot a bilious green light out of his wand. If Sherlock hadn’t known the effects of his curse, he might have not known which curse had hit Castor first. But it was obvious. In what felt like slow motion, the boy went white and stiff and fell over. Sherlock, just as petrified, managed only in time to cover his eyes. But the sound of the boy’s neck hitting the sink still managed to reach his ears, driving tears into his eyes as Sherlock became aware of what he had done. He tore his hand away, only realising now, that he was sitting in the debris of destroyed cubicles. His left hand rested between the broken pieces of ceramics, while his right one covered his mouth. He felt sick. He had planned to petrify Tom Riddle, and not- “Fine,” Tom Riddle said, his voice neutral, as if he’d just found out he’d been served the wrong food. “Not the body I intended to, but-“ he sighed and lifted his wand. He threw the skull into the air and shot a quick levitation charm behind it, catapulting it just a feet away from Sherlock. And then, he raised his wand arm again. The spell, or curse, whatever it was, was colourless, but still visible. It looked, like the air got denser between the skull, Riddle and the dead body. Like a string forming out of nothing, it connected the three of them like a triangle. The emerald in the skull suddenly exploded in light, shining as bright as a star- and Sherlock knew what he was talking about, he’s had comparisons. He could barely see Riddle through the rays of light, but he was torn out of his mind anyway, when a feeling of sickness hit him and all air was suddenly sucked out of his lungs. He could only hear Riddle curse but not more. His right hand wandered to his stomach and Sherlock had to lean over, in fear of vomiting. His left, searching for a grip in the sea of shards, was covered in blood and when Sherlock looked down on himself, a colourless, incorporeal line, like a clothesline twirled a few times, stretched from his chest directly to the skull. Just a second later, it was torn from his chest by an invisible force. He fell to the floor and was quickly pulled up by Tom Riddle. “You idiot!” “Leave me alone,” Sherlock cried and slapped Tom Riddle’s hand away from his collar, where he was holding him. He fell against a wall. Riddle pointed his wand at him, but looked desperate. His face was torn in a grimace. Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow. He would die, without having found out what the bloody deal about this skull was. But it didn’t come. Instead, Riddle let out a cry of frustration and threw his wand away. Sherlock opened his eyes. The head boy stood against the sink, head bowed in defeat. But something else struck Sherlock more. The skull pendant in the air. Sherlock reached after it. It felt warm, like it’s been exposed to the sun for too long. How could it be here, when he left it in the TARDIS with the Doctor? Sherlock looked at the pendant too long. His eyes were captivated by the emerald in its midst and he didn’t see the wand pointed at him. He only felt the blow, smashing him into the wall, and then then he felt nothing.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

“-to destroy it” “Why?” Sherlock could feel himself slowly gliding back into consciousness. He was too tired to open his eyes or even blink. Instead, he tried to hold on to the Doctor’s familiar voice.  
“Do you know what that is?” The second voice unmistakably belonged to Professor Dumbledore. Wherever Sherlock was, it wasn’t the TARDIS. Or was it? Is must’ve been some place a Hogwarts teacher had access to. A longer pause filled the room and Sherlock assumed a great deal of their conversation had been managed over a look. He heard a whisper but couldn’t make out whose.  
“Murder.” “Yes he did.” “It wasn’t murder, it was an accident.” “Dark magic doesn’t raise the question of guilt. He killed someone, and that’s a fact.”  
Who murdered someone? Did Tom Riddle try to murder him? Sherlock desperately tried to recall the last few hours, but however strong he tried to remember, nothing, not a single memory crossed his mind. The last thing he remembered, was following Tom Riddle up to the bathroom. “What is a horcrux?” He heard the Doctor say. “Horcruxes are rare, we’ve never been able to measure the effects it had on someone who did it… involuntarily.” “I won’t… I can’t.” "Yes you can, he shouldn't live the rest of his live with that burden. He's only a boy."  
Sherlock couldn’t bear it any more. He tried to move his legs but they felt like butter. Instead, he turned to his side. With all his strength he shoved his body to the side and kicked over a candelabra in doing so. It hit the floor and four eyes immediately turned his way. “Sherlock,” the Doctor said softly and sat down on the bed, next to his friend.  
“What happened?” Sherlock asked, trying to be oblivious about the fact that he overheard most of their conversation.  
“What do you remember?”  
“I went up to the bathroom to see what Tom Riddle was up to. But after that nothing. What happened?” He repeated, his voice shaking. The Doctor looked cautiously at Dumbledore.  
“Tom Riddle wanted to try out spells of dark magic on you. A student came in between and it came to a duel. You were knocked out cold.”  
“Where is he now? Does he have the pendant? Did he do dark magic-“ the rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat when the Doctor held up the familiar shape of the skull on its leather band.  
“Sherlock, the student died in this duel. Riddle escaped. And they suspect you of murder.”  
“It would be best- “ Dumbledore suddenly spoke out of nothing. The tone was just as calm as in his lessons, but there was something hidden under it. Unsaid words. If he wanted to convince children to feel safe when they clearly weren’t, he had to work hard on that, Sherlock thought and looked back at the Doctor.  
“If I’d go home? Yes, thank you, I don’t wanna stay here anyway,” he managed to get his feet off the bed, but standing up was still a challenge, so Sherlock stayed, pouting, put on the bed.  
“What happened to Riddle? What was his goal? Why did he need me for it?”  
“He was using you as an experiment.” Dumbledore said. “That can’t be the only reason. He could’ve used anyone for that. He acted like my best friend for the last months, up until he found out I was scared of snakes, what was that even supposed to-“  
“He thought that you could help him. He thought you were an heir of Salazar Slytherin. Slytherin’s heirs can speak to snakes. When he found out, that you could be no help to him, you became his victim.”  
“So what about the pendant, what did he need that for?” The silence in the room was crushing. Sherlock always knew when adults didn’t want to tell him something. When they wanted to keep it a secret, because they thought it improper, or because they thought they were protecting him. This was both. And neither. In addition to the discomfort in both men’s posture there was fear. Sherlock wouldn’t wait for an answer. The pendant in the Doctor’s hands was too close to him to be left unnoticed, so he snatched it from the time lord. The Doctor noticed it, but couldn’t keep Sherlock from already looking at the skull. It was the same artefact he’d been shown 5 years ago. Exactly the same. Without any marks time had left on it. Without the scratch marks that an idiot salesman in Diagon Alley had left on it.  
Sherlock looked up. “What are you not telling me?” He could feel his voice shaking. Something was wrong and the panic in the time lord’s eyes told a story. He tore away, stumbling up, but just as fast as he moved, a hand, the Doctor’s, was on his forehead and Sherlock could feel a surge of power knocking him out. And then, everything was black once more.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

When Sherlock woke up the second time, the familiar orange light of the TARIDS’s control room greeted him. He was lying on a hammock fastened under the console floor. From where he lay, he could see the Doctor changing position while navigating his ship. He was slower, not jumping around like he usually did. His muscles ached when Sherlock stood up and he felt sick. Not nauseous, but in a way that reminded him of sick days off from school, when his mother had made him soup and Redbeard would jump on his bed and be there with him. Redbeard. His memory striked Sherlock’s heart like a lightning bolt. He pulled himself up the stairs.

“Are you okay?” the Doctor leaned over the banister as soon as he saw Sherlock standing up. He shrugged and looked at the man, defeated.  
“Where are we? Where’s the skull?” The Doctor didn’t answer. “You’ve destroyed it?” Sherlock’s face went pale. “I didn’t,” the Doctor said, but something in his voice was… off.  
“You can’t. You can’t, you can’t, you-“ Sherlock ran past his friend to the console where the pendant was conveniently hanging on a lever. He plucked it from its spot and held it protectively in his hands. With his thumb he caressed its top, where the thin scratch on its surface had its place. “What’s happened to it?” He demanded. The Doctor’s eyes did not leave his face when his right hand reached into his pocket and pulled out an exact replica of the pendant. Sherlock swallowed. The words were on his tongue, ready to be spit out- I don’t understand. But he did. Unfortunately.  
There was only one reliable explanation. His hands, holding the pendant, sunk and so did his heart. “There are two.” “No,” the Doctor said, but it wasn’t what Sherlock had meant. “There’s one from the past and one from the future.” The Doctor nodded. “This was always going to happen.” Sherlock bombarded his thoughts out of his mind. “Tom Riddle found the skull. We got it from him and you-“ Sherlock frowned. “You. You in the past must’ve gotten it from someone… How did you find me with it?” The Doctor opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “What did he do with it? What did he do with me? What are you not telling me? What are you not telling me?” “I am not gonna say ‘It’s better you don’t know’ because I know you’ll want to know. But even if you don’t believe me, it truly is the case that you’re far better off not knowing.”  
Sherlock’s face was red now. “Tell me!” “I can’t, I really-“ the Doctor made his hands into fists and had them clenched right to his face. It was painful to him, Sherlock could see, but he didn’t care. “So how do you want to travel with me then, just let me come with you without knowing what has happened?” The look on the time lord’s face said it all. “No,” Sherlock whispered and shook his head aghast. “No, you can’t!” The Doctor’s hand trembled when he raised it to Sherlock’s head but Sherlock was faster. He escaped the hand and ran away, around the console, with the pendant flying behind him. With only a few steps he was at the doors. Tearing it open, he was ready to run outside into whichever world they’d landed on, but there was none. Purple and blue clouds lay in the air, like fog, but it wasn’t fog. It was a nebula. They were in space. Sherlock turned and looked directly into the Doctor’s eyes, who was standing right behind him. “I’m sorry.” “You’re gonna take my memory.” It was not a question. “How much of it?” Sherlock felt like crying, but his eyes felt too dry for that. His shaking, sweaty hands left the doorframe and he rubbed them dry on his trousers. “I’m gonna leave the best in.” The Doctor said, but his sad eyes made Sherlock question his promise. Cold hands touched his head on both sides and the last Sherlock saw, before he blacked out once more, was the purplish light reflected on the TARDIS’s control room walls.

1600 light years away, in a universe without magic, the TARDIS landed in a small bedroom, decorated with a pirate mobile and seashells from a foreign beach. Toys from a toy store on the other end of the galaxy were placed on the windowsill next to the bed with blue covers. The Doctor stepped outside his ship, carrying Sherlock to his bed. He let the boy down and put the covers over him. If someone else had been looking at him, he would not have looked different than an ordinary boy sleeping. But the appearance was deceiving.

The Doctor swallowed and looked away from the troubled boy’s face and into his own hands. He had returned the pendant, the horcrux, to a museum in a foreign system, 60 lightyears away. His younger self, he was sure, would make the same stupid decision of helping a thief steal the famous skull. He’d mistaken it back then, angering his thief friend in the process, and with that ended up with Sherlock while tracing the pendant’s origin. The one now lying in his hands was the one he’d found there. Battered by the strains of curiosity, it bore the soul of Sherlock Holmes inside and the Doctor knew only one place it could be safe.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Doctor Who, Sherlock or Harry Potter.

People usually existed in several universes at the same time. When someone turned left in one, another one would pop up, letting this person turn right. Turning left or turning right has of course no big impact on one’s daily life. But in some cases it could lead to new encounters, new jobs, mistakes, dogs to pet and coffees to buy. Often, people turn out to have completely different lives than their copies in the universe next door. They marry their first love instead of their third and end up with two kids instead of just one. But sometimes there is a constant. A person, a place or even just a car that always stays the same. The Doctor had his fingers crossed, when he landed the TARDIS in a different home in England at night, hoping, the constant he was counting on would always stay the same.

**************************************************************************************************************************************************

It might not have been such a brilliant idea to park the TARDIS in a teenager's bedroom. Even if it was invisible. Even if it was at night. The Doctor had just been lucky that the 16 year old boy went straight to bed after having a shower. An hour later, the time lord dared to step outside. A gap, only inches wide, opened in the middle of the room and a yellowish orange light escaped its inner dimension. The time lord did one step and clumsily landed on dirty Rugby clothes. The room was tidy, except for the worn t-shirts and jeans that covered the back of a chair. He grabbed a stool standing conveniently next to a single bookshelf, stretching itself up to the ceiling, which boards were covered with anatomy and medicine books among the occasional fictional story.

It was clear, that the boy's ambition was to be a doctor.

The time lord sat down on a stool next to John Watson's bed. His left hand was wrapped around the horcrux in the pocket of his trousers. John was sleeping. He was lying on his back, his right arm tucked under his head. Two visible lines were on his forehead. Whatever he was dreaming about, it was not pleasant. Carefully, the Doctor slid the leather band over the boy's head, letting the skull rest on his chest. The green emerald in its centre emitted a calming light on his pyjama and John's face relaxed and he shifted slightly in his sleep, making the Doctor stop breathing. When he didn’t wake up, the time lord leaned over and pressed two fingers against his forehead, sending some time lord magic through John’s brain.

“You don't know it yet. But we have a mutual friend. It's still a few years until you’ll get to meet him. But you most definitely will. There are hundreds of other universes in which you exist. And in all of them you have met.” He straightened himself, as if to shake off the burden he’d been carrying around. It didn't help. When John woke up, he’d never question where the strange pendant had come from. In his memory it would have always been there. “You may not understand its meaning, but trust me on this: You are the only person I can think of, worthy enough, to carry a piece of this soul. After all, there should always be at least one doctor taking care of Sherlock Holmes." He smiled weakly to himself and then turned and walked back to his invisible ship, taking it away from earth, only leaving the memory of its sound behind. And a teenage boy sleeping peacefully, with a soul, he’d eventually know better than anything else, resting upon his heart.


End file.
